.    - 


A  ROMANCE 
OF  THE  NINETEENTH   CENTURY 


A  ROMANCE 


OF  THE  NINETEENTH 


CENTURY 


BY 
W.    H.    MALLOCK 

AUTHOR    OF 

"la  Life  Worth  Living,"    "The  New  Republic,"   "Property  and 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY    :    9  AND  1 1  EAST 
SIXTEENTH  STREET    :     :    NEW  YORK  CITY 

1899 


PREFACE 

TO 

THE  SECOND   EDITION. 


'THHE  character  and  the  meaning  of  the 
following  work  of  fiction  have  been  at 
once  seen  in  America.  It  has  there  been  rec- 
ognized as  a  philosophical  novel,  identical 
in  purport  with  all  my  previous  writings ; 
and  it  has  been  dealt  with  simply  as  such. 
In  England,  however,  it  seems  to  have  fared 
differently ;  and  not  only  its  purport,  but 
even  the  bare  outlines  of  its  story,  have  been 
so  entirely  misconceived  in  some  quarters, 
and  so  entirely  misrepresented  in  others,  that 
it  will  not  be  superfluous  if  I  say  a  few  words 
to  explain  them. 

3 


21369G6 


iv  Preface. 

I  begin  with  the  story.  The  hero  is  a  man 
of  fine  and  generous  nature  ;  but  two  causes 
have  injured  it.  One  is  the  scepticism,  so 
distinctive  of  our  own  epoch  ;  the  other  is  a 
course  of  levity  into  which  that  scepticism 
has  translated  itself.  His  religion  is  a  forlorn 
doubt ;  his  love  is  a  semi-cynical  trifling;  and 
at  heart  he  is  the  prey  of  a  misery  which  he 
can  but  half  conceal  from  himself.  In  this 
condition  he  meets  the  heroine,  and  he  at 
once  yields  to  her  attraction  :  but  he  does 
this  at  first  as  a  mere  emotional  luxury,  which 
he  condemns  even  while  he  indulges  in  it. 
Out  of  this  state,  however,  he  is  soon  rudely 
awakened.  One  of  the  heroine's  chief  charms 
for  him  is  her  detection  of  his  own  distress, 
and  her  strange  sympathy  with  it.  By  and 
by  he  discovers  the  reason  of  this.  She  con- 
fesses in  despair  to  him  that  she  has  lost  her 
virtue,  that  she  utterly  hates  herself,  and  that 
her  whole  inner  life  is  a  yet  blanker  desola- 


Preface.  v 

tion  than  his.  This  revelation  works  a  sud- 
den change  in  him.  In  an  instant  his  levity 
leaves  him  ;  he  becomes  a  serious  man  ;  and 
all  his  thoughts  are  devoted  to  one  purpose, 
the  redemption  of  this  girl's  character.  He 
at  first  hopes  that  his  task  may  prove  easy ; 
but  to  his  sorrow  and  horror  he  at  last  learns 
it  is  not  so.  He  grows  slowly  to  realize  that 
the  case  he  has  here  to  deal  with,  is  one  not 
of  misguided,  so  much  as  of  depraved  affec- 
tions ;  and  once  or  twice  he  all  but  yields  to 
despair.  His  devotion,  however,  is  not  lost 
upon  the  object  of  it.  She  falls  deeply  in 
love  with  him ;  and  as  a  higher  passion  de- 
velops itself  a  new  self-respect  is  created  in 
her.  He,  meanwhile,  is  having  a  yet  farther 
experience.  His  own  love  and  solicitude  as- 
sume wider  proportions ;  and  from  feeling 
how  he  is  owed  to  the  service  of  one  wo- 
man, he  feels  he  is  owed  likewise  to  all  the 
world,  who  could  profit  by  him.  The  prompt- 


vi  Preface. 

ings  of  love  expand  into  the  promptings  of 
social  duty.  With  a  quick  instinct  the  hero- 
ine feels  this  change.  From  being  the  one 
object  of  a  devoted  lover's  affections,  she  be- 
comes one  object  amongst  many,  of  an  anx- 
ious thinker's  duty.  Her  sensitive  nature 
receives  a  shock,  which  her  spiritual  system 
is  yet  too  weak  to  withstand,  and  she  once 
more  relapses.  In  this  course,  however,  she 
neither  finds  nor  expects  happiness.  Her 
second  fall  is  the  result  of  desperation  only ; 
and  her  sudden  death  from  heart  disease  is 
the  almost  immediate  consequence. 

Such  being  the  outlines  of  the  story,  I  now 
turn  to  the  meaning  of  it.  It  is  in  reality  a 
study  of  one  subject.  It  is  a  study  of  life 
with  a  faith  in  God  subtracted  from  it.  It 
is  a  study  of  the  scientific  atheism  I  have  so 
often  already  criticised  ;  and  I  have  now 
tried  to  exhibit  it  as  bearing  its  proper  fruit. 
In  the  whole  Romance  there  is  not  a  single 


Preface.  vii 

chapter  which  directly  or  indirectly  does  not 
relate  to  this.  It  has  been  sought  to  exem- 
plify the  following  three  doctrines  in  partic- 
ular :  firstly,  that  the  source  of  goodness  is 
historically  in  the  human  affections ;  sec- 
ondly, that  the  explanation  of  goodness  is 
logically  in  the  postulates  of  theology  ;  and 
thirdly,  that  though  goodness  may  exist  be- 
fore these  postulates  are  assented  to,  it  is 
sure  to  be  ruined  in  the  long  run,  when  they 
are  once  consciously  repudiated.  It  has  been 
sought  to  show  farther,  that  in  a  self-con- 
scious epoch,  the  relations  between  faith  and 
goodness  are  mutual.  Thus  the  heroine's 
faith  is  taken  from  her  through  the  senses, 
the  hero's  through  the  intellect ;  and  yet  the 
current  materialism  of  to-day  is  in  each  case 
equally  to  blame.  It  begins  the  ruin  of  one ; 
it  completes  the  ruin  of  both.  Had  it  not 
been  for  this,  both  might  have  found  salva- 
tion ;  she  might  have  regained  her  purity, 


viii  Preface. 

and  he  his  warmth  of  heart.  But  as  it  is, 
they  can  do  no  more  than  struggle.  Faith 
and  goodness  in  each  try  hard  to  reassert 
themselves ;  but  evil  for  its  ally  has  our 
whole  modern  philosophy ;  reason  seems  to 
fight  for  it,  and  goodness  and  faith  find  all 
their  endeavors  futile. 

A  few  quotations  and  references  will  make 
the  matter  clearer.  The  hero  in  the  opening 
chapters  is  shown  in  his  worst  condition. 
Even  in  this  he  is  a  man  of  refined  taste ; 
even  when  sensuous  he  is  not  sensual ;  and 
his  conscience  has  still  power  enough  to  pre- 
vent an  Epicurean  life  from  contenting  him. 
But  in  his  bitter  contempt  for  marriage,  and 
in  his  idle  readiness  to  idealize  the  vulgar 
Frenchwoman,  it  is  shown  how  his  highest 
feelings  have  been  put  to  the  poorest  uses. 
"  That  your  feelings  are  high  and  fine"  his 
friend  says,  "  I  do  not  deny  for  a  moment.  It 
is  in  that  that  the  badness  lies.  You  are  mak- 


Preface.  ix 

ing  a  playground  of  what  should  be  your  holy 
of  holies.  You  may  not  be  indulging  your 
grosser  appetites;  but  you  are  making  yourself 
for  ever  incapable  of  any  earnest  affection  ;  and 
this  is  the  surest  way  in  which  you  can  quench 
the  Spirit"  The  very  feelings,  however,  he 
is  here  described  as  playing  with,  have  still  a 
tendency  to  turn  into  more  than  toys ;  and 
this  is  made  apparent  the  instant  the  heroine 
stirs  them.  As  his  acquaintance  with  her 
proceeds,  he  becomes,  in  spite  of  himself, 
more  and  more  serious.  He  has  the  imagi- 
nation of  a  lover,  before  he  has  the  inten- 
tions of  one ;  and  she  is  soon  in  his  eyes  the 
type  of  a  saddened  purity.  Even  when  he 
fancies  he  is  trifling  with  her,  he  is  more  in 
earnest  than  he  thinks  he  is  ;  and  the  voice 
of  conscience  interrupts  him  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  his  love-making.  "  Look  at  me"  he  says 
to  the  heroine,  "I  have  wealth,  power,  and  I 

think  some   talent;    that   is   the  sense  that 
i* 


x  Preface. 

haunts  me;  and  the  greater  a  maris power  or 
place  is,  the  greater  in  God's  eyes  becomes  the 
number  of  his  creditors.  If  ever  I  find  God 
again,  it  must  be  with  hands  full  of  good 
deeds,  not  only  clean  of  evil."  Still,  he  is  but 
half  serious  till  the  great  shock  comes.  Then 
his  fair  ideal  is  confronted  with  the  reality  ; 
and  what  the  heroine  might  have  been, 
and  what  she  has  made  herself,  are  shown 
him  in  ghastly  contrast.  All  at  once  good 
and  evil  become  facts  for  him,  they  are  no 
longer  abstractions.  "/  have  become  a  new 
man  for  your  sake,"  he  says  to  her,  "  in  one 
short  evening"  Yet  his  moral  awakening 
even  now  is  not  complete.  He  has  so  far 
idealized  her,  that  he  cannot  at  first  conceive 
her  full  degradation  ;  and  his  devotion,  till 
he  does  this,  is  still  tainted  with  sentimen- 
tality. "  Let  me  help  you,"  he  says,  "  to  form 
a  new  present ;  and  whilst  that  is  forming, 
let  us  consent  to  bury  the  past.  Then,  by  and 


Preface.  xi 

by,  when  we  again  go  back  to  it,  and  roll  the 
stone  away  from  the  door  of  the  sepulchre,  you 
will  find  no  festering  corpse  there,  but  only 
the  grave  clothes  purified,  and  two  white  an- 
gels keeping  watch  over  them."  It  will  be 
seen  that  he  is  still  over-confident,  and  that 
he  is  too  conscious  of  the  poetry  of  the  situ- 
ation. When  he  learns  the  full  truth,  how- 
ever, all  false  sentiment  leaves  him.  "His 
passion"  it  is  said,  "  had  passed  from  romance 
into  hard  reality.  There  was  nothing  now  in 
it  akin  to  the  scent  of  fiowers,  the  plash  of 
fountains,  or  the  glimmer  of  moon-lit  seas : 
and  the  human  anxieties  that  ;ould  be  affected 
by  things  like  these,  now  seemed  to  him  but 
silly  toys  and  child's  play"  "/  dorit  ask 
you  any  longer"  he  says  to  the  heroine,  " to 
become  an  innocent  girl  again.  I  ask  you  to 
become  a  holy  woman  instead,  that  is  far  better. 
Amongst  the  highest  saints  in  heaven  will  be 
faces  deepest  scarred  by  the  battle"  "All  my 


xii  Preface. 

life"  he  says  further,  "  is  turned  into  one  long 
mute  prayer  for  you  that  you  may  put  away 
from  yourself  every  taint  of  evil.  Hate  it, 
learn  to  hate  it  /  Let  it  revolt  you  as  it  once , 
revolted  you  /  .  .  .  .  My  head  is  heavy, 
my  eyelids  ache  with  sadness.  Did  I  not  love 
you,  I  should  have  only  asked  to  possess  you. 
Your  lips  and  arms  could  have  given  me  all  I 
asked  for.  But  love  is  stronger  than  passion, 
and  its  demands  are  limitless,  not  for  the  lover, 
but  for  the  loved.  ....  If  I  might  only 
bear  your  sins,  and  leave  you  once  more  spot' 
less,  I  would  be  scourged  and  spit  upon.  I 
would  let  my  whole  life  be  broken  /  Cynthia, 
my  knowledge  of  you  has  indeed  worked  a 
change  in  me." 

It  is  on  this  crisis  in  the  hero's  life,  and  its 
counterpart  in  the  heroine's,  that  the  whole 
romance  turns.  Everything  else  is  either  the 
preface  or  the  sequel  to  it.  It  remains  to 
speak  of  the  sequel.  Though  the  hero  has 


Preface.  xiii 

recovered  his  lost  moral  earnestness,  there  is 
one  thing  which  he  cannot  recover  ;  and  that 
is  his  faculty  for  a  natural  healthy  love.  He 
has  trifled  that  away ;  it  will  not  come  back 
again.  His  evil  conduct  has  brought  its  own 
Nemesis.  It  is  the  heroine's  perception  of 
this  defect  in  him  that  destroys  his  power  for 
good  over  her.  "  You  need  have  no  fear  of 
me"  she  says,  " so  long  as  you  Jill  my  being. 
There  is  no  room  left  for  any  evil  there"  But 
what  shocks  her  is  the  discovery  that  after 
she  has  made  him  the  chief  thing  in  her  life, 
she  cannot  secure  for  herself  a  like  position 
in  his.  "  //  is  my  welfare"  she  at  last  ex- 
claims to  him,  "it  is  my  welfare  you  care  for, 
it  is  not  me.  You  have  the  same  care  for  me 
that  a  priest  might  have,  or  a  doctor :  it  is  not 
tJte  care  of  a  human  being  that  loves  me.  I  am 
your  penitent  or  your  patient  :  I  am  not  the 
one  woman  who  could  make  life  happy  for 
you"  "  Surely"  she  reflects,  "  were  you  all 


xiv  Preface. 

a  man  ought  to  be,  you  would  be  able  to  love  in 
a  more  human  way  than  you  do.  There  is 
something  wanting  in  you.  You  are  good 
enough  to  make  me  wish  for  holiness;  you  are 
not  good  enough  to  make  me  able  to  attain 
to  it."  Then  in  the  desolation  of  heart 
that  precedes  her  last  relapse,  "  All  the  holy 
things"  she  says,  "that  we  were  brought  up 
to  long  for,  and  for  which,  till  I  had  ruined 
myself,  I  did  long — what  do  you  think  they 
now  seem  to  me  ?  Like  one  of  those  fabulous 
rocks  in  the  middle  of  a  great  ocean,  which 
sailors  see  sometimes,  and  which  then  disappear 
suddenly.  .  .  .  /  have  enough  faith  left 
to  make  me  miserable,  but  not  enough  to  make 
me  hopeful.  My  faith  has  lost  its  courage  ; 
but  like  other  cowards  it  can  still  bully.  My 
life  is  bitter  with  the  lees  of  a  belief  whose 
finer  spirit  is  evaporating? 

The  above  abstracts  and  extracts  will,  I 
think,  be  enough  to  indicate  the  tone  of  the 


Preface.  xv 

book  with  regard  to  moral  matters,  and  also 
the  way  it  connects  them  with  contemporary 
intellectual  problems.  As  for  vice,  cynicism, 
and  worldliness,  it  will  be  found  that  all  these 
are  dwelt  upon  :  but  the  indulgence  in  vice 
is  only  alluded  to ;  and  in  the  course  of  the 
story  it  is  never  once  exhibited.  "  On  four 
occasions  the  hero  kisses  the  heroine.  Be- 
tween him  and  her,  that  is  the  utmost  license. 

I  find,  however,  that  the  reviewers  in  this 
country  have  fixed  in  especial  on  three  scenes 
or  passages,  which  have  been  criticised  in  the 
following  way. 

It  has  been  stated,  firstly,  to  quote  the  ex- 
pression of  the  Standard,  that  I  have  done 
what  even  the  impurest  Frenchman  never 
dared  to  do — that  I  have  represented  my 
heroine  as  "gloating  over"  an  album  of  licen- 
tious pictures,  "the  gift  of  her  lover?  The 
truth  is  this.  The  heroine  is  represented, 
not  as  gloating  over  any  such  book ;  but  as 


xvi  Preface. 

having  once  opened  one,  unknowing  its  con- 
tents, and  refusing  on  that,  to  give  even  a 
second  glance  at  it.  It  is,  farther,  not  the  gift 
of  her  lover,  but  of  his  rival,  who  tries  to  ruin 
her. 

Secondly,  a  scene  has  been  quoted  in  which 
the  hero  nearly  yields  to  the  temptations  of  a 
worthless  married  woman.  The  scene,  in  the 
reviews,  has  been  completely  isolated  from 
its  context.  It  has  rnt  been  stated  that  the 
hero  is  maddened  by  jealousy  at  the  time ; 
and  that  he  afterwards  condemns  his  fault, 
and  reproaches  himself  with  the  utmost  bit- 
terness. "  If  I  met  my  own  double"  he  says, 
"  how  my  gorge  would  rise  at  it !  .  .  .  If 
a  man  cant  respect  himself,  there  are  but  two 
escapes  from  torture  —  to  die,  or  to  respect 
nothing? 

Thirdly,  the  hero's  friend  declares,  on  a  cer- 
tain occasion,  that  if  a  girl  he  loves  intensely 
resolves  not  to  marry  him,  he  will  drown  his 


Preface.  xvii 

despair  in  a  course  of  vicious  pleasure.  This 
speech  has  been  quoted  as  specially  typical  of 
the  tone  of  the  whole  book.  The  reviewers, 
however,  have  one  and  all  suppressed  the 
hero's  instant  comment  on  it.  "  For  God's 
sake"  he  says,  "  do  talk  like  a  rational  being. 
It  makes  me  sick  to  hear  you  speak  in  that 
way.  A  moment  ago,  I  had  begun  to  admire 
and  envy  you  ;  and  now  you  have  spoilt  all. 
Because  some  woman,  it  chances,  does  not  re- 
spect you,  is  that  any  reason  why  you  should 
cease  to  respect  yourself?  Affection,  you  say, 
raises  the  soul  to  God ;  and  for  aught  I  know 
it  may  very  possibly  do  so.  But  if  you  are 
crossed  in  love,  does  that  make  God  valueless  f 
Are  your  views  about  God  dependent  on  a 
girl's  views  about  you  ?  If  your  passion 
really  raises  you,  it  cannot  let  you  plan  debas- 
ing yourself  .  If,  in  cold  blood,  you  can  thus 
plan  debasing  yourself,  then  all  I  can  say  is 
that  I  dont  think  much  of  your  passion? 


xviii  Preface. 

By  methods  of  criticism  such  as  those  I 
have  just  alluded  to,  the  English  press  has 
sought  to  support  its  verdict.  The  Romance, 
it  has  declared,  is  corrupt  from  end  to  end  : 
it  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  aimless 
licentious  story.  The  few  words  I  have 
thought  it  well  to  say,  will  be  enough,  with 
the  candid  reader,  to  disabuse  him  of  this 
impression.  The  Romance  is  not  corrupt, 
though  it  is  indeed  a  picture  of  corruption. 
It  is  a  picture  of  the  earth  with  the  salt  of 
the  earth  withdrawn  from  it.  Those  to  whom 
all  faith  is  a  superfluity  may  think  the  book 
foolish.  Those  who  cannot  consider  corrup- 
tion without  longing  to  share  it  may  think 
the  book  vicious.  Those  who  wish  to  con- 
demn it  on  either  of  these  grounds  may 
easily  make  a  cento  of  extracts  which  shall 
seem  to  support  their  judgments.  But  those 
whose  minds  are  unprejudiced,  and  whose 
imaginations  are  clean,  will,  with  the  above 


Preface.  xix 

remarks  to  guide  them,  see  it  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light.  They  will  see  it  by  the  light  of 
its  own  obvious  meaning.  As  a  work  of  lit- 
erary art  they  may  think  it  faulty  in  many 
ways.  On  that  question  it  is  not  my  prov- 
ince to  speak.  From  a  moral  point  of  view 
they  may  think  it  in  some  places  injudicious. 
I  should  respect  such  an  opinion,  even  if  I 
did  not  agree  with  it.  But  judged  as  a  whole, 
with  regard  to  its  intention  and  its  tendency, 
they  will  see  in  it  not  a  licentious  love-story, 
which  confuses  vice  with  virtue  ;  but  a  phil- 
osophical study,  which  is  based  upon  their 
essential  difference,  or  which  is,  rather,  one 
long  analysis  of  its  meaning 


BOOK  I. 


A  ROMANCE 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

*T*HE  talent,  the  family,  and  the  fortune 
-*-  of  Ralph  Vernon  were  all  quite  distin- 
guished enough  to  make  it  worth  the  world's 
while  to  attend  to  him  ;  and  the  result  was 
that  he  was  at  once  condemned  and  courted. 
This  was  not  perhaps  a  matter  that  it  is  very 
hard  to  account  for.  His  manners  and  his 
amusements  led  him  to  consort  with  the  care- 
less, whilst  his  deeper  interests  were  really 
those  of  the  serious  ;  and  thus,  let  him  be  in 
what  society  he  would,  he  was  always  in  a 
moral  sense  more  or  less  an  outsider.  He 
had  little  of  the  gay  good-fellowship  which  is 
the  virtue  most  prized  by  the  pleasure-seekers ; 


4  A  Romance  of 

he  was  on  the  surface  far  too  much  of  a 
pleasure-seeker  not  to  irritate  those  who  are 
busied  with  thoughts  of  duty :  and  his  faults, 
actual  or  imputed,  when  they  came  to  the 
general  ear,  repelled  the  one  class  without 
attracting  the  other. 

It  was  supposed  that  he  had  trifled  with 
the  affections  of  numerous  women  ;  it  was 
supposed  that  he  had  wasted  any  amount  of 
talent ;  it  was  supposed  that,  from  knowledge 
or  want  of  knowledge,  he  was  without  any 
kind  of  Christianity,  and  that,  from  want  of 
earnestness,  he  was  quite  unmoved  by  its  sub- 
stitutes ;  he  was  supposed  to  have  many 
friends  warmly  attached  to  him,  and  to  be 
himself  incapable  of  any  warm  attachment. 
And  this  marked  want  in  him  of  anything 
really  lovable  was  made  all  the  more  promi- 
nent by  a  singular  charm  of  manner,  which, 
for  the  time  being,  was  certain  to  win  ev- 
ery one.  Such  was  the  general  impression 
of  him,  which,  whether  true  or  no,  was  at  all 
events  not  groundless ;  and  there  was  many 
a  mother  in  London  of  the  best  and  purest 
type  who  thought  his  character  so  cold,  so 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  5 

unprincipled,  and  so  repulsive,  that  he  could 
atone  for  it  only  by  becoming  her  daughter's 
husband. 

The  number  of  these  mothers  was  at  last 
reduced  to  one.  Ralph  Vernon  became  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  The  fiancee  was  young, 
clever,  beautiful,  and  deeply  attached  to  him  ; 
nor  in  the  case  of  most  men  would  the  event 
have  seemed  unnatural.  But  the  general 
sentiment  with  regard  to  Vernon  was  merely 
wonder  as  to  what  could  be  here  his  motive : 
for  most  of  the  world  thought  what  a  rough- 
tongued  cousin  of  his  said,  "  I'll  eat  my  hat, 
if  Ralph's  ever  in  love  with  any  one."  Let 
his  motive,  however,  be  what  it  might,  his 
engagement  caused,  or  was  caused  by,  a  very 
visible  change  in  him.  All  of  a  sudden  he 
seemed  to  become  serious ;  and  for  many 
months  one  might  have  thought  him  a  new 
man.  The  father  of  the  bride-elect  was  at 
the  time  absent  in  Afghanistan,  and  the  mar- 
riage was  put  off  till  his  return  the  following 
year.  Vernon,  meanwhile,  said  good-bye  to 
his  idleness ;  he  was  even  not  liberal  in  the 
days  he  allowed  for  love-making.  He  devoted 


6  A  Romance  of 

himself  instead  to  his  various  county  duties ; 
he  studied  such  subjects  as  education  and 
pauperism  ;  he  projected  the  building  of 
schools  and  cottages ;  and  he  tried  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  great  mass  of  his  ten- 
antry. Finally,  when  in  1880,  came  the 
renowned  general  election,  he  stood  in  the 
Conservative  interest  for  his  own  division  of 
the  county,  and  lost  the  battle  by  only  six 
votes. 

This  sudden  devotion  to  public  affairs  was 
not  construed  altogether  to  his  advantage. 
It  was  supposed  to  argue  lukewarmness  in 
love,  rather  than  zeal  in  politics  ;  nor  was  the 
rumor  at  all  wondered  at  that  the  lady  took 
the  same  view  of  it.  Vernon,  it  was  said  on 
all  sides,  was  not  behaving  well ;  it  was  added 
by  many  that  he  wished  to  back  out  of  the 
engagement,  and  the  latter  opinion  was  cer- 
tainly confirmed  by  the  sequel.  In  due  time 
the  lady's  father  returned,  and  the  various 
legal  preliminaries  were  at  once  to  be  got 
over.  What  then  were  the  feelings  of  all 
who  heard  it  when  Vernon  insisted,  as  one 
condition  of  his  marriage,  that  any  children 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  7 

that  might  result  from  it  should  be  brought 
up  Catholics  !  The  father  and  the  family  of 
the  fiancee  were  all  fiercely  Protestant  ;  and 
this  move  of  Vernon's  made  an  end  of  the 
whole  matter.  The  rupture  was  abrupt  and 
painful.  Vernon's  conduct  was  very  severely 
criticised.  That  he  had  any  interest  in  re- 
ligion was  what  nobody  gave  him  credit 
for ;  and  he  was  supposed,  in  this  case,  to 
have  used  it  as  a  last  excuse  in  his  despera- 
tion. 

His  conduct  directly  afterwards  did  not 
disarm  the  censorious.  He  was  soon  reported 
to  have  formed  another  intimacy,  and  to 
have  given  another  lady  a  strong  sentimental 
claim  on  him.  Then,  the  report  went  on, 
he  had  repeated  his  former  conduct,  though 
this  time  perhaps  more  judiciously.  There 
had  been  no  formal  engagement,  the  world 
supposed  ;  there  had  been  no  need,  therefore, 
for  any  definite  subterfuge.  A  simpler  ex- 
pedient had  been  quite  sufficient :  he  had 
buried  himself  somewhere  in  some  retreat  on 
the  Continent.  This  second  drama  had  been 
of  a  strictly  private  character ;  but  there  are 


8  A  Romance  of 

acute  observers  who  can  pierce  through  any 
privacy  ;  and  the  comments  made  on  it  were 
not  of  a  friendly  nature.  Indeed,  when  the 
news  was  known  that  after  all  his  misde- 
meanors Vernon  was  enjoying  himself  in  a 
charming  Provencal  villa,  surrounded  by 
books,  and  supplied  with  a  first-class  chef, 
one  of  the  keenest  and  most  discriminating 
of  all  his  feminine  acquaintances  was  at  last 
tempted  to  speak  of  him  as  the  worst  form  of 
voluptuary. 

In  spite,  however,  of  every  ill  report, 
there  were  a  certain  number  who  always 
stood  up  for  him,  and  who  maintained  stoutly 
that  there  were  two  sides  to  his  character. 
They  could  not  deny  that  what  the  world 
said  was  true  of  him  ;  they  declared  only 
that  it  was  not  the  whole  truth.  There  was 
one  of  these  in  especial — a  certain  Alic 
Campbell — who  looked  upon  Vernon  as  the 
best  friend  he  had,  and  who  knew  most  of 
his  inner  history  that  was  quite  hidden  from 
others.  When  Vernon  went  abroad,  he  had 
begged  Campbell  to  go  with  him  ;  but 
Campbell  for  certain  reasons  had  felt  con- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  9 

strained  to  refuse.  Vernon  had  written  from 
Paris  to  him,  to  renew  his  entreaties,  but 
without  the  desired  result.  About  a  fort- 
night later  he  returned  to  the  charge  once 
more. 


10  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   II. 


"  1VTY  dear  AKc,"  ke  wr°te»  " 

•*•  *  -^  settled  ;  and  I  will  now  take  no  denial. 
You  must  and  you  shall  join  me.  Could  you 
only  see  where  I  am,  I  should  have  no  need 
to  implore  you  ;  you  would  come  instantly, 
and  come  of  your  own  accord.  As  it  is,  I 
can  only  trust  to  writing  ;  but  you  surely  will 
not  refuse  me.  Come  to  me,  do,  if  for  no 
more  than  a  week  or  two,  and  share  with  me 
this  beautiful  Southern  solitude.  Share  my 
villa  with  its  cool  portico  —  a  villa  just  large 
enough  for  two  children  of  Epicurus.  Share 
my  garden  with  its  myrtles,  and  its  oranges, 
and  the  softly  swaying  gold  of  the  great  mi- 
mosa-trees. Yes,  I  am  here  in  the  South  and 
the  clear  sunshine  ;  and  I  am  not,  as  you 

10 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  ik 

prophesied  and  as  half  my  heart  urged  me, 
in  any  of  the  winter  haunts  of  English  fash- 
ion and  frivolity ;  but  I  am  embowered  safely 
by  myself  on  the  greenest  of  all  the  prom- 
ontories that  Europe  juts  into  the  Mediter- 
ranean. I  am  settled  at  the  Cap  de  Juan.  I 
have,  indeed,  chosen  a  lovely  spot,  and  al- 
ready I  love  it  tenderly.  All  day  long, 
through  the  leaves  of  my  dark  evergreens, 
and  through  arched  bowery  openings,  the  sea 
shines  and  sparkles.  You  and  I  may  change 
and  grow  weary  ;  and  we  have  both  had  much 
to  weary  us.  But  this  bluest  of  blue  seas 
seems  to  be  always  one-and-twenty  ;  and  as  I 
breathe  its  breath,  full  of  eternal  freshness, 
the  thrill  and  the  dreams  of  youth  once  more 
revive  in  me.  And  ah,  the  view !  In  a  vast 
majestic  crescent  the  French  coast  of  moun- 
tains curves  away  towards  Italy,  with  its  suc- 
cession of  pearl-grey  headlands  dying  faintly 
and  far  off  into  the  distance.  Midway,  about 
ten  miles  from  here  as  a  boat  sails,  with  its 
clusters  of  milk-white  houses,  Nice  lies  along 
the  sea-level.  Range  upon  range  is  piled 
up  behind  it,  blue  with  far-off  haze,  or  green 


12  A  Romance  of 

with  nearer  olive-woods  :  and  bright  over  all, 
like  the  hills  of  another  world,  are  the  jagged 
Alpine  summits  with  their  white  snows  glit- 
tering. All  day  long  the  lights  and  the  tints 
vary.  New  mists  form  and  melt  upon  the 
mountains ;  the  sea  changes  from  one  glow 
to  another.  The  wave-worn  sea-rock,  pierced 
with  its  clear  shadows,  has  always  new  hues 
and  aspects  ;  so  have  the  silver  gleams  that 
sleep  in  the  spreading  stone-pines.  The 
whole  face  of  Nature  is  like  the  face  of  a 
living  thing.  It  is  the  face  truly  of  a  Cle- 
opatra. 

"  '  Age  cannot  wither  it,  nor  custom  stale 
Its  infinite  variety.' 

"  Alic — you  who  are  coughing,  sneezing, 
and  blowing  your  nose  in  England — will  not 
this  tempt  you  ?  Your  first  impulse  will  be, 
I  know,  to  refuse  me.  You  are  not  in  spirits, 
you  will  say,  for  the  sunshine  ;  you  have  no 
energy  left  to  make  any  exertion.  I  am  quite 
familiar  with  the  mood  of  mind  you  are  in. 
You  are  like  a  man  who  is  sea-sick  at  the 
extreme  end  of  a  steamer,  and  who  yet  will 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  13 

not  move  himself  to  make  his  way  to  the 
middle.  You  are  arguing  to  yourself  with 
the  unique  logic  of  grief,  '  I  am  comfortless, 
and  therefore  nothing  shall  comfort  me.'  Let 
me  try  to  move  you  to  a  brighter  and  a 
healthier  mind. 

"  You  are  wretched,  you  tell  me,  because 
you  want  to  marry  a  certain  person,  and  be- 
cause you  find  that,  though  she  loves  you  as 
a  friend,  she  will  never  love  you  but  as  a 
friend  only.  Now,  I  am  going  to  speak  very 
gently  to  you,  and  yet  I  hope  convincingly. 
I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  any  such  idle  lies 
as  that  your  loss  is  a  trifling  one.  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  you  that  it  is  an  atom  less  than 
you  feel  it  to  be  ;  and  you  would,  I  think, 
injure  your  character  by  trying  to  undervalue 
it.  No,  I  will  not  tell  you  to  undervalue 
your  loss.  I  will  only  show  you — a  thing 
you  have  quite  forgotten — how  to  value  your 
gain.  Perhaps  you  will  say  I  am  not  in  a 
position  to  do  so,  for  in  some  ways  certainly 
you  have  been  somewhat  reticent.  You  have 
told  me  much  about  your  own  feelings,  about 
your  own  devotion,  and  about  the  moral  re- 


*4  A  Romance  of 

suit  that  all  this  has  had  on  you.  But  about 
the  object  of  these  feelings  you  have  told  me 
little.  I  know  neither  how  you  met  her  nor 
how  you  wooed  her ;  nor  anything  about  her 
character,  except  that  her  ways  are  simple. 
You  have  not  told  me  even  her  name.  But 
I  don't  think  this  matters.  Let  the  difference 
between  our  two  situations  be  what  it  may, 
your  case  in  many  ways  has  been  also  mine  ; 
and  I  am  going  now  to  speak  from  my  own 
experience. 

"I,  as  you  know  well,  was  not  long  since 
to  have  married  ;  and  during  a  good  year's 
novitiate  I  was  preparing  my  whole  being  for 
its  solemn  new  condition.  My  character 
during  that  period  underwent  a  profound 
change.  My  bright  colored  hopes  and  pur- 
poses lost  their  airy  wings.  They  fell  to  the 
solid  earth,  and  found  for  themselves  plodding 
feet.  I  felt  I  was  no  longer  my  own.  My 
life  was  owed  to  another ;  and  for  the  first 
time  there  dawned  on  me  the  true  sense  of 
responsibility.  But  circumstances  combined 
to  make  my  marriage  impossible ;  and  after 
1  had  already  learned  to  mentally  mix  my  life 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  15 

with  another's,  our  two  lives  were  again  made 
separate.  When  first  I  realized  this,  it  was 
like  waking  out  of  a  dream.  I  was  conscious 
of  a  loneliness  I  had  never  known  before  ; 
and  even  now,  with  my  shatte/ed  marriage 
prospects,  my  manhood  seems  to  lie  in  ashes 
about  me.  But  what  do  I  find  has  happened  ? 
Something  glad,  strange,  and  altogether  un- 
locked for.  Out  of  the  ashes  of  my  manhood 
has  re-arisen  my  youth — my  youth,  which  I 
thought  I  had  said  good-bye  to  for  eternity  ; 
and  the  divine  child  has  again  run  to  meet 
me  with  its  eyes  bright  as  ever,  and  with  the 
summer  wind  in  its  hair.  The  sun  has  gone 
back  for  me  on  the  dial,  I  am  three  years 
younger  again.  The  skies  seem  to  have  grown 
bluer,  and  my  step  more  elastic.  Once  more 
free  and  unfettered,  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
were  walking  on  air  ;  and  I  have  the  delicious 
sense  of  having  lost  a  burden,  even  though  I 
may  have  lost  a  treasure  as  well. 

"  You  will  see  my  meaning  better  when  I 
go  on  to  tell  you  that,  though  I  have  recov- 
ered the  buoyancy  of  youth,  I  have  by  no 
means  recovered  its  ignorance.  I  still  retain 


1 6  A  Romance  of 

a  certain  salvage  of  wisdom,  sad  and  bitter 
enough  in  some  ways,  and  yet  good  for  men 
like  us  two  to  remember.  It  is  this — listen 
patiently.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
intensely  selfish  as  a  woman's  deep  affection  ; 
and  the  stronger  and  more  single-hearted  it 
is,  the  greater  becomes  its  selfishness.  A 
man's  passion  is  generous  when  compared 
with  a  woman's  love.  A  man's  passion,  at 
its  worst,  lasts  but  a  short  time ;  even  while 
it  lasts,  its  demands  are  limited  ;  and  what  is 
more  than  this,  a  good  man  will  restrain  it. 
But  the  truer  and  more  sensitive  a  woman  is, 
the  more  thoroughly  will  she  let  her  love 
master  her ;  the  less  effort  will  she  make  to 
retain  the  least  control  of  it. 

"  And  what  a  master  it  is  !  Its  jealousy 
is  cruel  as  the  grave,  and  its  demands  know 
no  limits  but  the  imagination  of  her  that 
makes  them.  A  woman  who  loves  thus  is 
not  content  with  the  chastest  bodily  con- 
stancy ;  she  is  not  content  even  with  the 
constancy  of  an  undivided  tenderness.  These 
she  takes  for  granted :  they  are  not  the 
things  she  craves  for.  What  she  craves  for 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  17 

is  the  constancy  of  your  whole  thought  and 
intellect.  You  are  to  have  nothing  in  your 
mind  that  you  do  not  confide  to  her ;  you  are 
to  stifle  every  interest  with  which  she  cannot 
be  associated.  If  you  want  any  mental  help, 
it  is  she  alone  who  must  help  you  ;  and  she 
had  sooner  you  were  helped  ill  by  her  than 
well  by  another  person.  She  will  be  as 
jealous  of  your  friendships  as  she  is  of  your 
affections,  and  as  jealous  of  your  thoughts 
and  tastes  as  she  is  of  your  friendships.  She 
cannot  patiently  conceive  of  you  as  in  relation 
to  anything  excepting  herself.  She  desires 
to  absorb  your  whole  life  into  hers ;  and 
the  larger  part  of  it,  which  she  naturally  can- 
not absorb,  she  desires  to  see  perish.  Her 
pleading  earnest  eyes  will  be  forever  saying 
to  you,  '  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee. 
Where  thou  goest  I  will  go  ;  and  go  not 
thou,  my  love,  whither  I  cannot  follow  thee.' 
"What! — with  all  the  world  of  thought 
and  imagination  before  us,  are  men  such  as 
we  are  to  be  tied  and  bound  like  this  ?  For 
my  part,  the  wings  of  my  spirit  seem  to  have 
all  the  winds  in  them ;  and  I  have  a  heart 


1 8  A  Romance  of 

sometimes  like  a  hawk's  or  a  wild  sea-gull's. 
It  is  not  a  heart  that  is  hard,  or  that  does 
not  soften  to  companionship.  I  could  often 
perch  tenderly  upon  some  beloved  shoulder, 
and  bend  my  head  to  listen  to  words  of 
tenderness.  But  if  the  hand  that  I  trusted 
but  once  closed  to  lay  hold  of  me — dared, 
from  love,  to  use  the  least  pressure  to  keep 
me — I  should  start  and  struggle,  and  feel  I 
had  suffered  treachery.  I  will  stoop  my 
neck  myself ;  but  no  one  else  shall  ever  draw 
it  an  inch  downwards.  Why  do  we  want 
companionship  ?  What  is  a  man's  need  for  it  ? 
Were  my  life  really  a  bird's,  I  would  gladly 
have  a  she-bird  to  fly  with  me ;  but  I  would 
have  her  only  because  we  were  both  bound 
independently  for  the  same  resting-place. 
That  and  that  alone  should  be  the  fetterless 
fetter  that  united  us.  But  a  woman  who 
loves  deeply  will  never  love  like  this.  She 
has  no  wish  to  be  your  companion  on  these 
terms.  It  is  not  the  common  end  that  she 
cares  for,  but  the  united  struggle ;  and  she 
reveres  her  wish  to  soar,  chiefly  because  it  is 
an  excuse  for  clinging  to  you.  Thus,  on  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  19 

same  principle,  she  will  go  nowhere  in  the 
mental  world  herself  unless  you  are  there  to 
support  her.  She  thinks  it  a  kind  of  treason 
to  you  to  try  and  walk  independently.  She 
cultivates  her  weakness,  that  she  may  be  al- 
ways trusting  to  your  strength ;  and  though 
her  weight  might  be  dragging  you  to  the 
ground,  she  would  never  think  of  it,  never 
see  it,  but  if  possible  she  would  only  lean  the 
heavier.  Was  ever  selfishness  so  pitiless  and 
intense  as  this  ?  And  yet,  by  a  strange 
magic,  it  looks  so  like  self-devotion,  that  a 
man,  if  he  be  not  a  brute,  can  hardly  fail  to 
be  crushed  by  it.  Such  love,  Alic,  may  be 
a  thing  that  suits  some  temperaments,  but 
surely  neither  yours  nor  mine. 

"  And  now  I  am  once  more  my  own.  Ah, 
the  sweetness  and  rest  of  this  serene  self- 
possession  !  But  lately  I  felt,  when  I  was 
looking  even  at  the  sea  or  the  mountains, 
that  I  was  not  permitted  to  love  them.  The 
shadow  of  another  would  always  seem  to 
cleave  to  me  and  claim  me ;  and  I  could  no 
longer  let  my  spirit,  as  I  used  to  do,  go 
floating  on  the  lonely  waters.  But  now  I 


2O  A  Romance  of 

can  look  everywhere  without  fear.  I  can  say 
to  the  sea,  when  it  makes  me  in  love  with 
loneliness,  '  I  violate  no  allegiance  due  to 
any  companionship.'  I  can  say  the  same  to 
the  forest,  when  its  leafy  smells  woo  me,  and 
the  murmur  of  its  brown  branches.  I  can 
say  the  same  in  society,  when  bright  eyes 
and  alluring  voices  stimulate  me,  and  I  feel 
that  many  women  are  far  better  than  one. 
Then,  too — though  I  will  not  dwell  upon  this 
here — were  there  a  God  to  turn  to,  I  could 
turn  to  Him  in  solitude.  And  now  in  the 
morning,  as  I  awaken,  I  often  turn  to  my 
pillow,  and  kiss  it,  and  say,  'No  head  but 
mine  can  ever  dare  to  press  you.'  All  the 
walls  of  my  bedroom  seem  to  smile  kindly 
and  quietly  on  me.  By  my  bedside  I  see  my 
dear  companions,  my  books — so  varied  and  so 
unobtrusive — that  will  themselves  tell  me  all 
they  can,  and  will  ask  for  no  confidence  in 
return ;  and  there,  too,  I  see  my  letters, 
which  have  now  the  new  charm  for  me,  that 
no  one  but  myself  will  ever  want  to  open 
them. 

"Yes,  I  have  learned  the  truest  secret  of 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  21 

Epicurus,  that  the  friendship  of  a  man  is 
more  than  the  love  of  a  woman.  Friendship 
is  always  a  free  gift ;  and  it  is  always  given 
readily  because  it  is  never  owed.  Love,  too, 
begins  as  a  gift;  but  a  loving  woman  will 
never  leave  it  so.  Before  you  know  it,  she 
will  have  turned  it  into  a  debt ;  and  the 
more  she  loves  the  debtor,  the  more  oppres- 
sively will  she  extort  the  utmost  farthing 
from  him.  But  between  friends,  Alic,  the 
intercourse  is  always  free.  I  could  have  no 
thought  that  it  would  be  treason  to  conceal 
from  you.  I  could  form  no  ties  or  friend- 
ships that  would  do  you  any  wrong.  And 
yet — if  I  may  alter  Shakespeare  in  a  single 
word — 

"  '  And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  hold  my  friend  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  by  false  compare.' 

"  Come,  then,  and  lay  all  this  to  your 
heart ;  for  your  heart,  I  know,  will  assent  to 
its  truth  as  mine  does.  Marriage  would  suit 
you  no  better  than  me.  It  allured  me  first 
with  its  many  pleasing  promises ;  and  in  the 
same  way  it  is  now  alluring  you.  It  can  give 


22  A  Romance  of 

much  to  numbers ;  I  do  not  deny  that  for  a 
moment ;  but  neither  you  nor  I  were  made 
for  it.  In  missing  it,  as  I  have  said  before, 
you  are  no  doubt  a  loser ;  but  my  advice  to 
you  is,  do  not  brood  over  the  loss ;  think  of 
the  gain,  for  the  gain  is  far  greater.  Recall 
your  imagination  from  the  solace  you  would 
have  had  in  marriage,  and  dwell  on  the  joys 
and  the  freedom  that  you  keep  because  you 
are  single. 

"  Freedom — yes,  you  have  that  still.  You 
have  not  the  caprices  of  any  one  else  to  bind 
you.  My  dear  Alic,  think  of  your  priceless 
freedom  !  I  say  think  of  it ;  but  I  want  you 
to  write  also.  Come  to  me,  come,  then,  from 
your  frosty  England,  and  let  me  see  the 
Southern  sunlight  laughing  in  your  glad  grey 
eyes.  If  you  will,  all  my  house  shall  welcome 
you.  My  champagne  is  excellent ;  my  cigars 
and  cigarettes  are  excellent — I  had  them  all 
sent  from  London ;  and  my  bookcases  are 
well  stored  with  poets,  and  with  your  own 
philosophers.  At  the  end  of  one  of  my  walks 
is  a  certain  marble  seat.  You  look  straight 
down  at  the  sea  from  it,  and  it  is  overarched 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  23 

with  myrtles.  There  is  a  perfect  wilderness 
of  green  shade  behind  it,  and  in  the  midst 
of  this,  like  an  enchanted  lamp,  is  a  great 
camellia  tree,  burning  with  scarlet  blossoms. 
Close  at  hand  there  is  a  little  table,  just  fit  to 
support  a  bottle  of  Burgundy,  and  a  quaint 
old  glass  goblet  for  each  of  us.  It  is  an 
entrancing  place.  It  is  a  bower  after  your 
own  heart.  And  there  we  might  sit  together, 
in  the  calm  delicious  mornings,  talking  or 
silent,  just  as  the  mood  prompted  us.  Some- 
times we  might  quote  to  each  other  our 
favorite  poets ;  sometimes  we  might  solve 
again  the  old  insoluble  questions  we  have  so 
often  discussed  before,  and  which  are  still 
eating  my  life  out ;  sometimes  we  might 
watch  in  quiet  the  waves  and  the  rocks  before 
us,  with  perhaps  some  gay  bright-colored 
fishing-boat,  floating  with  its  white  plume 
of  a  sail,  and  its  brown  fisher  at  the  stern 
bending  over  his  own  reflection.  Yes,  Alic, 
if  you  will  only  come  out  to  me,  we  will  con- 
trive to  elude  the  Furies.  We  will  look  into 
life  together  more  closely  than  we  used  to  do  ; 
but  it  shall  be  a  personal  oppression  to  us 


24  A  Romance  of 

no  more  than  it  used  to  be.  We  will  only 
enter  here  on  a  new  phase  of  youth.  We 
will  have  free  cloudless  days,  and  nights  of 
moonlight.  We  will  drive,  and  ride,  and  sail, 
and  explore  the  whole  country.  We  will 
know  the  folds  of  the  hills  grey  with  olive- 
trees;  we  will  listen  to  the  sound  of  mule- 
bells  ;  we  will  see  how  the  middle-age  begins 
in  the  wild  hill  villages.  Then,  too,  my  own 
immediate  neighborhood — that  is  delightful 
also.  The  whole  of  my  green  peninsula  is  an 
Eden  of  woods  and  gardens ;  and  the  life 
that  surrounds  you  there  is  like  a  living  idyll. 
Old  brown  crones  crouching  under  the  olive- 
trees,  the  peasant  proprietor  tilling  his  small 
field,  the  neatly  dressed  nursery-gardener 
surveying  his  glass  frames,  the  retired  do- 
mestic tradesman  smiling  over  the  gate  of 
his  little  villa-garden — these  are  the  living 
images  that  surround  one,  and  that  give  to 
one's  thoughts  such  a  quaint  delightful  set- 
ting. A  strange  mixture,  too,  on  all  sides 
touches  one  of  homely  plenty  and  of  wild 
luxuriance.  Cabbages  and  palm-trees  grow  in 
the  same  enclosure.  Between  beds  of  kitchen 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  25 

stuff  are  strips  starred  with  anemones,  and 
pink  almond-blossoms  tremble  among  the 
apple-trees. 

"  Ah,  my  old  companion,  will  not  these 
pleasures  move  you  ?  Write,  write  to  me 
quickly,  and  say  they  will.  Only  in  that  case 
I  have  something  further  to  tell  you.  If  you 
would  enjoy  the  seclusion  I  have  described 
to  you,  you  must  come  and  enjoy  it  speedily  : 
and  for  this  reason.  On  one  side  of  me 
is  a  beautiful  marble  villa,  with  immense 
gardens  and  long  winding  walks ;  and  on  the 
other  side,  with  immense  gardens  also,  is  a 
large  disused  hotel,  whose  proprietors  last 
year  were  bankrupt.  It  is  built  like  an  old 
chateau.  It  has  quaint  vanes  on  the  gables, 
and  flights  of  marble  steps  lead  up  to  the 
doors  and  windows.  It  is  just  at  the  cape's 
point ;  and  its  domain  of  gardens,  with  their 
long  straight  terraces,  their  arches  of  trellised 
roses,  is  bounded  on  three  sides  by  the  sea. 
Those  gardens,  silent  and  lifeless,  not  a  soul 
but  the  gardeners  now  walks  in  them — the 
gardeners  and  myself,  and,  who  should  you 
think  besides  ?  Poor  Frederic  Stanley — the 


26  A  Romance  of 

cleverest  of  our  Oxford  idlers  ;  who,  since  we 
knew  him,  has  been  first  a  guardsman,  and 
is  now  a  Catholic  priest.  How  time  does 
change  some  men  !  Stanley  is  here  for  his 
health  :  he  is  broken  down  with  work.  And 
though  he  looks,  I  fancy,  rather  askance  at 
me,  we  have  often  little  reserved  conversa- 
tions together. 

"  But  I  am  wandering  from  the  point. 
What  I  want  to  tell  you  is  this.  Up  till  now 
the  hotel  and  the  villa  have  been  alike 
tenantless,  and  I  have  been  able  to  use  both 
gardens  as  my  own  ;  but  that  happy  period 
is  now  drawing  fast  to  a  close.  Some 
English  people,  whose  names  I  do  not  know, 
but  with  whom  no  doubt  I  shall  make  ac- 
quaintance, are  coming,  or  perhaps  have 
already  come,  to  the  villa.  And  as  to  the 
hotel,  what  do  you  think  has  happened  ? 
Our  friend  the  Duchess  has  taken  it — it  is 
still  furnished — for  the  whole  of  next  month, 
and  intends  having  a  large  party  there.  So 
you  see  that  very  soon  I  shall  be  saying 
good-bye  to  solitude.  This  last  piece  of  news 
I  have  only  this  instant  learned,  and  from  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  27 

Duchess  herself.  I  can't  exactly  say  if  I  am 
glad  or  sorry.  I  shall  have  at  all  events  a 
very  enlivening  neighbor ;  and  her  company 
always  charms  me.  It  is  not  the  charm  now, 
as  it  must  once  have  been,  of  beauty  and 
sentiment.  It  is  at  fifty  what  supplies  their 
place,  and  rivals  them ;  it  is  the  charm  of 
mundane  humor.  This  bright  gay  humor  of 
feminine  middle-age,  it  always  seems  to  me  a 
very  rare  gift.  It  is  a  highly  artificial  product, 
and  is  almost  peculiar,  I  think,  to  our  class  of 
society.  It  requires  to  develop  it  a  combina- 
tion of  two  things  in  the  past — the  suscepti- 
bilities of  the  world  of  romance,  and  the 
indulgence  of  them  in  the  world  of  fashion. 
However,  be  our  friend's  charm  what  it  will, 
I  am  at  this  moment  going  to  enjoy  it ;  as  in 
another  five  minutes  I  shall  be  at  dinner  with 
her. 

"  And  this  at  last  brings  me  to  a  con- 
fession which  will  amuse  you.  Where  do 
you  think  I  am  writing  you  this  letter  ?  Not 
in  my  philosophic  garden,  not  in  my  quiet 
study.  All  about  me  is  gaslight  and  gilding, 
and  a  murmur  of  garish  life.  The  figures 


i8  A  Romance  of 

surrounding  me  are  gamblers  and  Parisian 
cocottes;  and  I  am  breathing,  not  the  scent  of 
the  sea  or  of  flowers,  but  of  patchouli  and 
faint  stale  cigarette  smoke.  I  am  in  the 
reading-room  at  Monte  Carlo.  I  drove  over 
here  this  morning — or  rather,  my  coachman 
drove  me — partly  to  try  a  new  pair  of  horses, 
and  partly  for  the  sake  of  the  starlight  drive 
back  again.  The  Duchess  is  staying  for  a 
day  or  two  at  the  hotel  attached  to  the 
gambling-rooms,  and  it  seems  she  has  a  little 
dinner  party  every  night  in  the  restaurant. 
To-night  the  Grantlys  are  coming.  You 
remember  Grantly  at  Oxford  ?  He  is  now 
in  the  First  Life  Guards  ;  and  his  wife  is  a 
lovely  American,  whose  face  is  even  prettier 
than  her  dresses,  and,  if  possible,  even  more 
changing. 

"Apropos  of  the  women  here,  there  is 
one  on  the  sofa  opposite  me,  who  is  really 
divinely  lovely.  Whenever  I  look  up  from 
my  writing,  I  am  met  by  her  soft  large  eyes, 
half  sad  and  half  voluptuous  in  their  tender- 
ness. She  is  as  different  from  the  women 
near  her  as  day  from  night,  or  rather  as  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  29 

stars  from  gaslight.  She  is  one  of  the  fallen  ; 
I  fear  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  that ;  but 
refinement — even  a  sort  of  nobleness — can 
outlive  virtue.  There  is  not  a  touch  of  paint 
on  her  ;  and  her  dress,  which  fits  her  per- 
fectly, is  strangely  simple.  If  I  have  any 
skill  in  reading  the  looks  of  women,  there  is 
something  of  a  higher  life  yet  lingering  in 
that  soft,  pleading  face,  that  she  half  hides 
from  me  by  her  large  crimson  fan.  Some 
women  have  a  glance  that  makes  me  long  to 
talk  to  them,  just  as  clear  sea-water  makes 
me  long  to  plunge  in  it. 

"  Write  to  me  soon.  I  am  obliged  to  stop 
now. 

"  By  the  way,  besides  the  Grantlys,  there 
is  another  guest  expected,  who  is  to  me  more 
interesting.  I  mean  Lord  Surbiton.  He 
was  the  first  man  of  letters  I  ever  knew  ;  and 
when  I  was  seventeen,  he  seemed  to  me  little 
short  of  a  god. 

"  Good-by  ;  I  must  be  going.  My  fair  one 
is  rising  too." 


30  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER  III. 

Duchess's  stately  figure  was  familiar 
•*•       at  Monte  Carlo,  and  many  an  eye  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  entered  the  gorgeous  res- 
taurant. 

"  Garden,"  she  said,  as  she  took  her  seat 
at  the  large  table  reserved  for  her,  "  Pommery 
et  greno,  extra  sec — the  last  champagne  on  the 
wine  list.  You  must  put  three  bottles  in  ice 
instantly,  for  in  five  minutes  we  shall  be  quite 
ready  for  dinner.  And — wait,  wait  a  moment, 
man,  for  I  have  not  done  speaking  to  you 
—we  are  not  going  to  pay  thirty-six  francs 
again  for  a  single  dish  of  asparagus ;  so  you 
will  perhaps  have  the  goodness  to  recollect 
that.  And  you  must  lay  another  place  if  you 
please,  as  we  shall  be  five  dining  this  evening 
instead  of  four." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  31 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Grantly  appeared  al- 
most immediately,  and  with  them  was  an 
elderly  man  in  close  attendance  on  the  latter. 
The  young  guardsman  and  his  wife  were  a 
very  characteristic  couple,  and  looked  like  a 
bright  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  modern 
London.  The  appearance  of  their  com- 
panion was  very  different.  His  dress  was 
too  showy  for  what  is  now  correct  taste,  and 
his  jewelled  scarf-pin  and  sleeve-links  were 
both  of  enormous  size.  But  on  him  these 
splendors  seemed  to  lose  half  their  offensive- 
ness.  They  were  plainly  the  fashion  of  a 
past  generation,  not  the  vulgarities  of  the 
present  one  :  they  even  heightened  by  con- 
trast the  strange  effect  of  his  face,  with  its 
worn  weary  cheeks,  and  his  keen  gfance  like 
an  eagle's.  This  was  none  other  than  the 
renowned  Lord  Surbiton — the  poet,  diplo- 
mat, and  dandy  who  had  charmed  the  last 
generation. 

The  whole  party  had  been  winning  largely 
at  the  tables,  and  their  spirits  were  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  glittering  scene  around 
them.  The  crowd  which  filled  the  restaurant 


32  A  Romance  of 

was  to-night  even  more  gay  than  usual.  All 
the  men  were  at  least  dressed  like  gentle- 
men, and  most  of  the  women  were  far  more 
splendid  than  ladies.  Fashionable  exiles 
from  the  English  world  of  fashion  were  de- 
tected in  numbers  by  the  amused  eyes  of 
the  Duchess ;  and  with  them  the  fair  com- 
panions who  had  caused  their  exile  or  were 
sharing  it.  It  was  said  even  that  royalty  was 
not  absent,  and  that  there  thus  was  a  divine 
element  unrecognized  in  the  midst  of  the  hu- 
man. Everywhere  there  was  a  flashing  of 
restless  eyes  and  diamonds ;  furred  and  em- 
broidered opera-cloaks  were  being  disposed 
of  over  the  backs  of  chairs  ;  long  gloves  were 
being  unbuttoned  and  drawn  off  ;  and  white 
hands,  glancing  with  rings,  were  composing 
deranged  tresses.  Above  was  the  arched 
ceiling  glowing  with  gold  and  pictures  ;  and 
the  walls,  florid  with  ornament,  returned 
every  shaft  of  lamplight  from  the  depths  of 
immense  mirrors,  or  the  limbs  of  naked 
goddesses. 

"  Now,  this,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  is  exactly 
what  I  enjoy  :  charming  company,  a  charm- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  33 

ing  scene  before  one,  and — let  me  tell  you 
all,  for  I  myself  ordered  it — a  really  excellent 
dinner.  However,"  she  went  on,  as  she 
unfolded  her  napkin,  and  looked  with  a  slow 
smile  at  the  menu,  "we  must  be  temperate 
in  the  midst  of  plenty ;  for  remember,  Mrs. 
Grantly,  you  and  I  and  your  husband  are  to 
go  back  to  the  tables  again  for  one  half-hour 
afterwards — only  one  half-hour,  mind  ;  and 
then,  as  Lord  Surbiton  suggests — he  is  always, 
as  we  all  know,  poetical — we  will  have  our 
coffee  outside,  and  compose  our  feelings 
under  the  stars  of  heaven." 

"  What ! "  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "and  is  Lord 
Surbiton  not  coming  back  to  the  rooms  with 
us?" 

"  Not  he,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  He's  not 
half  a  man  at  gambling.  I  don't  think  your 
poets  ever  are.  But  where,"  she  exclaimed 
presently,  as  she  saw  that  a  chair  was  vacant, 
"  where  is  Mr.  Vernon  ?  Has  any  one  seen 
our  Mr.  Ralph  Vernon  ?  We  can't  possibly 
get  on  without  our  one  unmarried  young 
man  ;  though,  to  say  the  truth,  till  this  mo- 
ment I  had  quite  forgotten  to  miss  him." 

3 


34  A  Romance  of 

"  Mr.  Vernon  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Grantly  with 
a  laugh.  "  I'd  advise  you,  Duchess,  not  to 
count  upon  him.  I  saw  him  on  the  hotel 
steps  only  ten  minutes  ago,  and  what  do  you 
think  he  was  doing  ?  Why  he  was  talking  to 
that  beautiful  creature  we  were  all  admiring 
at  the  tables — the  woman  with  the  red  fan 
and  the  long  dark  eyelashes.  I  don't  know 
what  she  was  saying,  I'm  sure,  but  she  had 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he  was  bending 
down  to  her." 

"Oh,  ho "  began  the  Duchess,  with  a 

soft  low  laugh.  But  Lord  Surbiton  inter- 
rupted her. 

"  Vernon  !  "  he  said  ;  "  can  this  be  the 
Ralph  Vernon  that  I  once  knew,  some  thir- 
teen years  ago — a  dreamy  eager  boy,  who 
used  to  come  and  show  me  his  poetry  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"  Poetry,  painting,  and  heaven  knows  what 
else — I  believe  he  has  tried  all  of  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "  I  once  had 
great  hopes  of  him.  I  once  thought  he 
was  signed  with  the  veritable  sign  of  ge- 
nius." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  35 

"  Well,"  replied  the  Duchess,  "  and  he  is 
very  clever,  I  believe." 

"  Men  who  are  clever,"  said  Lord  Surbiton 
solemnly,  "  we  can  count  by  millions  :  men 
with  genius  we  count  by  units.  As  for  Ver- 
non,  his  early  verses  were  beautiful,  in  spite 
of  their  crude  language.  They  had  the  same 
charm  in  them  that  his  ideal  eyes  had — little 
of  the  gladness  of  youth,  but  all  its  sweetness 
and  its  hunger." 

"  It  seems,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that  this  is 
a  young  man  who  is  very  much  to  be  envied ; 
for  in  addition  to  all  these  charms  he  has  two 
others  that  women  think  irresistible — a  for- 
tune and  a  history." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  with  a  wave 
of  his  jewelled  hand,  "women  are  always 
attracted  by  a  man  with  a  history,  because  it 
always  means  that  he  is  to  be  either  blamed 
or  pitied." 

"  And  what,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  may  Mr. 
Vernon's  history  be?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Duchess,  "  that's  just  what 
we  don't  know,  and  that's  the  very  reason 
why  we  find  it  so  interesting.  Never  be  too 


36  A  Romance  of 

curious,  my  dear,  about  a  friend's  history;  and 
then  you  can  always  stick  up  for  him  with  a 
clear  conscience." 

"  Look  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  here 
the  charmer  comes.  I  only  hope  he  won't  be 
trying  all  his  fascinations  on  me." 

Vernon  was  full  of  regrets  for  being  behind 
his  time ;  but  these  he  discovered  were  met 
with  nothing  but  laughter.  Mrs.  Grantly 
assured  him  at  once  that  they  knew  all  about 
him  and  his  doings.  "  And  this  is  the  man," 
she  went  on — "now,  I  ask  you  all  to  look  at 
him — who  says  he  has  come  abroad  for  the 
sake  of  philosophic  solitude  ! " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Vernon  ;  "  I  think  I 
am  quite  consistent.  Solitude  is  my  wife,  and 
society  is  my  mistress  ;  and  I  like  to  live  with 
the  one,  and  be  always  intriguing  with  the 
other." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  since  we 
are  your  society  for  the  moment,  our  collec- 
tive place  in  your  heart  is,  I  must  say,  not 
very  honorable." 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"  What  my  suspicions  rest  upon  is  Mr.  Ver- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  37 

non's  solitude — that  retiring  villa  of  his  at  the 
Cap  de  Juan  :  especially  now  we  hear  all  this 
about  red  fans,  and  whisperings,  and  hotel 
door-steps,  and  long  eyelashes." 

"  My  attentions  on  the  door-steps,"  said 
Vernon,  "  were  of  the  strictly  Platonic  order. 
There  is  something  rather  touching  in  her 
way,  when  one  comes  to  talk  to  her." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Captain  Grantly  dryly, 
"  there  always  is.  And  what's  her  rank,  Ver- 
non ?  Is  she  a  princess  or  a  duchess?" 

"If  she's  a  princess,"  said  Vernon,  "she 
must  have  lost  her  principality ;  for  she  was 
dreadfully  in  want  of  a  thousand  francs  to 
gamble  with." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Captain  Grantly ;  "  they 
all  are." 

The  Duchess,  meanwhile,  was  surveying 
the  motley  scene  before  her.  "  I  confess,"  she 
said,  with  a  soft  smile  of  amusement,  "this  is 
hardly  the  place  one  would  come  to  if  one  were 
in  search  of  Platonic  attachments.  Now,  look 
round,  all  of  you,  and  take  stock  of  the  com- 
pany. There  are  plenty  of  men  one  knows — 
of  course  one  expects  that ;  but  the  women 


38  A  Romance  of 

with  them — did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it  ? 
Come,  Mr.  Vernon,  you  understand  these 
things.  Just  observe  the  couple  behind  you 
— they  can't  talk  English,  so  we  needn't  mind 
discussing  them — are  they  man  and  wife,  do 
you  think  ?  Or  that  fine  lady,  with  the  hair 
sprinkled  with  gold-dust,  whom  Lord  Surbiton 
seems  to  admire  so — what  relation  should  you 
say  she  was  to  the  old  Jew  she  is  dining 
with?  Upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Grantly,"  she 
added  presently,  "  I  don't  believe  that,  our 
two  selves  excepted,  there's  a  single  woman 
here  you  could  possibly  call  respectable." 

"  That's  the  very  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly, 
"  why  I  like  being  here  so  much.  It  makes 
me  feel  like  an  angel.  But  talking  of  angels, 
there  goes  a  genuine  one,  if  you  like,  for  you  ; 
there  goes  Colonel  Stapleton.  Oh  my !  and 
isn't  he  grown  fat  and  ugly !  You'd  never 
have  thought — would  you  ? — that  that  man 
was  once  the  best  dancer  in  London.  And, 
Duchess,"  she  went  on,  "  I  hope  you  admire 
the  big  checks  on  his  coat.  'Twould  take  four 
of  him,  I  guess,  to  play  one  game  at  chess 
upon." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  39 

Colonel  Stapleton  was  a  florid  man  of  it 
might  be  five-and- forty.  Despite  his  inclina* 
tion  to  stoutness,  he  held  himself  well  and 
gracefully,  and  had  an  air  about  him  of 
dissolute  good-breeding.  He  had  one  other 
charm,  too,  of  which  Vernon  was  at  once 
made  sensible — a  taking  and  very  musical 
voice,  which,  as  he  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  speak  to  a  friend  dining,  could  be  heard 
distinctly  at  the  Duchess's  table.  "  The  one 
with  the  red  fan  ?  "  he  was  saying  gayly ;  "yes, 
she,  if  you  like  it,  is  a  regular  out-and-outer. 
She's  down  here,  so  she  tells  me,  with  some 
fellow  who  belongs  to  the  '  Figaro.' " 

Vernon  and  Captain  Grantly  both  overheard 
this.  The  former  was  somewhat  annoyed, 
and  the  latter  amused  at  it,  though  he  was  at 
the  same  time  frowning  over  his  wife's  late 
observations.  "Poor  old  Jack  Stapleton!" 
he  said  ;  "  Jessie  can't  bear  him,  though  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  why.  He's  as  good-hearted 
a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  and  is  nobody's  enemy 
but  his  own." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  We  all 
of  us  know  Jack  Stapleton.  If  he  was  a  little 


4O  A  Romance  of 

bit  thinner,  your  wife  would  be  only  too  de- 
lighted with  him." 

Mrs.  Grantly,  however,  was  by  no  means 
silenced. 

"  Look  at  his  back,"  she  said,  "  as  he's  sit- 
ting down  to  his  dinner.  Isn't  selfishness 
written  in  every  curve  of  it  ?  The  way,"  she 
went  on,  as  she  leant  over  to  the  Duchess,— 
"  the  way  that  man  behaved  to  a  young  girl  I 
knew  is  something  more  than  words  can  de- 
scribe to  you." 

"Jessie,"  exclaimed  her  husband  sharply, 
as  if  determined  to  change  the  subject,  "  look 
behind  you  for  a  minute.  There's  the  old 
hag — don't  you  see  her  ? — who  tried  to  collar 
your  money  this  afternoon  at  the  tables.  It's 
worth  while  watching  her,  just  to  see  how  she 
claws  her  wine-glass." 

"  I  hadn't  observed  her,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"  Well,  she  at  any  rate  has  no  compromising 
diamonds,  and  no  wicked  Lothario  to  attend 
to  her." 

Mrs.  Grantly's  eye  lit  up  with  a  sudden 
laughter.  "  Lord  Surbiton,"  she  said,  as  she 
touched  his  arm  with  her  fan,  and  pointed 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  41 

out  the  old  woman  in  question,  "  I  guess  I 
can  show  you  one  virtuous  woman  here. 
Her  morals,  I  am  sure,  are  strictly  unim- 
peachable. I'll  lay  you  six  to  one  on  them 
in  black-silk  stockings." 

Lord  Surbiton  eyed  Mrs.  Grantly  with  a 
look  of  somewhat  sinister  gallantry.  "If 
your  feet  and  ankles,"  he  said,  "  are  as  lovely 
as  your  hands  and  wrists,  I  shall,  proudly  pay 
the  bet,  even  if  I  have  the  sad  fortune  to 
win  it." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly  dryly, 
"  I  shall  ask  you  to  make  your  bets  with  my 
husband.  If  you  will  do  so  with  him  on  the 
same  principle  next  Ascot,  we  shall  still  man- 
age, perhaps,  to  keep  out  of  the  workhouse." 

Mrs.  Grantly,  though  she  said  what  she 
chose  herself,  could  always  hold  her  own  to 
perfection  ;  and  Lord  Surbiton's  gaze  was 
now  at  once  withdrawn  from  her.  But  a  few 
minutes  afterwards,  when  he  again  turned  to 
her,  there  was  a  change  in  his  whole  expres- 
sion that  she  was  not  prepared  for.  His 
worn  face,  as  a  friend  had  once  observed  of 
him,  was  like  a  battered  stage  on  which  the 


42  A  Romance  of 

scenery  was  always  shifting  ;  and  it  now  had 
a  strange  appearance,  as  of  some  ruinous 
transformation-effect.  Every  trace  of  its  late 
look  had  gone  from  it :  it  gleamed  instead 
with  a  grave  uncertain  tenderness,  like  a  light 
from  a  lost  boyhood  ;  and  even  his  artificial 
manner  when  he  spoke  did  not  destroy  the 
impression. 

"  You  have  shown  me,"  he  said,  "  one  vir- 
tuous woman.  Let  me  now  show  you 
another.  Do  you  see  the  two  who  have  this 
moment  entered  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  all  the  party  were  turned  in 
the  same  direction.  There  was  no  mistaking 
for  an  instant  who  it  was  that  had  attracted 
him.  Standing  close  to  the  door,  and  looking 
about  her  in  some  uncertainty,  was  a  tall 
English  girl,  in  company  of  an  elder  lady. 
The  two  had  apparently  come  there  to  dine, 
and,  being  strange  to  the  place,  did  not  know 
where  to  bestow  themselves.  The  girl's 
hesitation,  however,  could  scarcely  be  called 
embarrassment.  The  scene  seemed  to  dis- 
tress far  more  than  to  embarrass  her ;  though 
it  would  hardly  have  been  unnatural  if  it  had 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  43 

done  both.  There  was  a  proud  reserve,  how- 
ever, in  her  graceful  movements  and  attitude, 
which,  in  a  scene  like  that,  sufficed  at  once  to 
distinguish  her.  She  was  very  pale,  with  a 
brow  and  throat  like  a  magnolia  blossom  ; 
whilst  her  lips,  in  the  words  of  Solomon, 
seemed  by  contrast  "a  thread  of  scarlet;" 
and  her  large  clear  eyes  were  dark  as  the 
darkest  violet.  She  stood  there  in  the  glare 
and  glitter  like  a  creature  from  another 
world. 

Lord  Surbiton  broke  silence  in  slow,  mea- 
sured accents.  "It  looks,"  he  said,  "as  if 
an  angel  had  descended  in  the  midst  of  us, 
like  a  snow-flake." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  apparition  aston- 
ished the  whole  party.  Vernon's  eyes,  in 
especial,  were  fixed  intently  on  her. 

"Angel  or  no  angel,"  said  the  Duchess, 
presently,  "  I  can  see,  even  from  this  dis- 
tance, that  she  gets  her  clothes,  not  from 
heaven,  but  Paris :  and  nothing  costs  so 
much  as  well-made  angelic  simplicity.  How- 
ever, joking  apart,"  she  added,  and  more  se- 
riously, "  upon  my  word  I  quite  agree  with 


44  -A  Romance  of 

Lord  Surbiton.  It  is  literally  an  angel's  face  ; 
and  a  very  high-bred  angel's  into  the  bar- 
gain. But,  good  gracious  ! — what  a  place  to 
bring  her  to  !  " 

Suddenly  the  two  strangers  were  observed 
to  move  forward  into  the  room,  while  the 
younger  one  first  started,  and  then  broke  into 
a  smile. 

"  Look  ! "  said  the  Duchess  with  interest, 
"  they  have  evidently  found  some  one  they 
know  here.  Let  us  try  and  discover  who 
it  is." 

"  Oh  my  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  I 
can  see  who  :  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — 
why,  it's  Colonel  Stapleton  !  Duchess,  you 
don't  know  what  you  missed.  You  should 
have  seen  how  he  jumped  up  when  he  saw 
them,  like  a  beer-barrel  on  springs  !  And 
there's  your  angel,  Lord  Surbiton  —  there 
she  is,  shaking  hands  with  him.  Well,  all 
I  can  say  is,  that  I  wish  her  joy  of  her  com- 
pany." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  the  Duchess, 
as  dinner  drew  to  a  close,  "  you  seem  very 
silent  and  abstracted.  This  interesting  young 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  45 

lady  has  clearly  made  an  impression  on 
you." 

"Haven't  you  noticed  him?"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly  ;  "  he's  been  watching  her  all  the 
time  ;  and  I  can  tell  by  his  face  that  he's 
jealous  of  Colonel  Stapleton.  However,  Mr. 
Vernon,  there  is  one  crumb  of  comfort  for 
you  ;  she  has  not  been  dining  at  the  same 
table  with  him." 

"No,"  said  Captain  Grantly,  "but  she's 
looked  round  and  smiled  at  him  every  ten 
minutes.  Keep  yourself  calm,  Vernon,  and 
don't  go  calling  old  Jack  out  for  it." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  Vernon,  with  a 
gravity  he  was  quite  unconscious  of,  "  that 
they  are  relations  of  some  kind  or  other 
— cousins,"  he  went  on  meditating,  "  cous- 
ins probably,  or  perhaps  even  niece  and 
uncle." 

"  Capital  !"  exclaimed  the  Duchess.  "He's 
thought  the  whole  matter  out  to  himself.  Mr. 
Vernon,  your  tastes  are,  I  must  say,  most 
versatile.  You  begin  the  dinner  with  Venus, 
and  you  wind  it  up  with  Diana.  But  tell 
me,"  she  went  on,  as  she  pushed  her  chair 


46  A  Romance  of 

back,  and  sedately  prepared  to  rise,  "  are  you 
a  gambler  as  well  as  a  lover  ?  For  if  not,  you 
will  perhaps  smoke  here  with  Lord  Surbiton, 
while  we  three  go  back  to  the  tables  for  a 
little  ;  and  then  we  will  all  meet  presently 
outside  for  our  coffee." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  47 


CHAPTER   IV. 

T  EFT  tete-h-tete  with  Vernon,  Lord  Surbi- 
•*•— '  ton  fixed  his  eyes  on  him,  whilst  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  gorgeous  gold  ciga- 
rette-case. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  he  began  between 
the  soft  smoke  puffs,  "since  I  last  saw  you  ; 
or  to  one,  young  as  you  are,  it  must  seen: 
long." 

"  I  like  to  be  called  young,"  said  Vernon, 
"  for  I  have  at  least  one  sign  of  age  in  me, 
and  that  is  I  am  beginning  to  value  my 
youth." 

"Happy  philosopher,"  cried  the  other, 
"  who  can  value  the  treasure  while  you  still 
possess  it !  When  last  I  saw  you,  you  were 
just  leaving  Eton,  and  you  had  not  learnt 
such  wisdom  then.  You  came  to  me  one 


48  A  Romance  of 

morning  before  luncheon,  sad  and  eager,  with 
some  verses  of  yours,  that  you  might  ask 
what  a  poet  thought  of  them.  I  suggested 
that  you  should  read  them  aloud  to  me,  but 
you  were  too  modest  to  do  so  ;  so  I  took 
them  myself,  and  read  them  aloud  to  you. 
When  I  had  finished  I  looked  up,  and  there 
were  two  large  tears  trembling  in  my  young 
bard's  eyes." 

"What !"  exclaimed  Vernon,  "and  do  you 
really  remember  that  unfortunate  boyish  stuff 
of  mine  ?" 

"Boy,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "your  verses 
were  not  stuff  ;  and  there  are  certain  things 
which  7  never  forget : 

"  '  Oh  Goddess,  I  am  sick  at  heart,  o'erworn 

With  weariness, 

For  the  weight  of  life  is  bitter  to  be  borne 
Companionless.' 

That  is  how  your  verses  began :  you  see  I 
can  quote  them  still.  Professedly  they  were 
a  sort  of  prayer  to  Diana:  but  really  they 
were  far  more  than  that.  They  were  the 
voice  of  youth  that  is  heard  through  all  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  49 

ages — youth  crying  in  its  solitude  for  some 
high  companionship.  There  is  nothing,  Ver- 
non,  so  unutterably  melancholy  as  a  boy's 
passionate  purity  :  and  for  me  you  were  then 
the  symbol  of  the  eternal  longing  of  boy- 
hood." 

"  How  well,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  remember 
that  little  poem  of  mine,  though  I  confess  I 
am  surprised  that  you  do  !  I  remember  the 
day  I  wrote  it,  and  the  sound  of  it  still  rings 
in  my  ears  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  wanting — 
one  thing  quite  gone  from  me,  and  that  is  the 
sort  of  longing  I  meant  to  express  in  it.  My 
thoughts  and  my  aspirations  of  those  days 
have  become  a  mystery  to  myself.  I  am 
startled  to  find  sometimes  how  utterly  I  have 
lost  the  clue  to  them." 

"  That  is  always  the  way,"  said  Lord  Sur- 
biton,  "  when  life  is  still  developing,  and  one 
form  of  eagerness  succeeds  and  dispossesses 
another.  It  is  in  virtue  of  this  process  that 
you  now  see  your  youth  to  be  valuable.  In 
the  middle  age  of  your  boyhood  you  longed 
sadly  for  the  unattainable ;  in  the  boyhood  of 
your  middle  age  you  idealize  the  attainable. 

4 


50  A  Romance  of 

Happy  philosopher,  I  again  say  to  you — 
philosopher,  lover,  poet,  and  man  of  the 
world  in  one." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Vernon  smiling,  "  if  I  now 
idealize  anything ;  and  I  fear,  Lord  Surbiton, 
that  you  idealize  me.  I  am  no  longer  a  lover, 
nor  even  a  would-be  poet." 

"  Not  a  poet  on  paper,  it  may  be ;  but  a 
poet  in  the  way  life  touches  you,  and  in  the 
demands  you  make  on  it.  To  be  a  poet  in 
this  sense,  you  need  never  have  written  a 
line  ;  and  yet  the  name  may  fit  you,  without 
any  violence  to  its  meaning.  The  imagina- 
tion is  for  every  man  the  co-creator  of  his 
universe,  and  those  men  are  poets  whose 
imaginations  create  most  gloriously.  And 
yet,  my  dear  Vernon,  you  say  you  no  longer 
idealize  !  I  shall  as  soon  believe  that  as  that 
you  are  no  longer  a  lover.  Why,  within  this 
last  couple  of  hours,  you  have  been  making 
love  to  one  lady,  and  longing,  we  all  thought, 
to  make  love  to  another." 

"Ah,"  said  Vernon,  "but  the  excitement  of 
making  love  is  very  different  from  the  rapt 
devotion  of  loving.  What  I  have  ceased  to 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  51 

be  capable  of,  what  I  have  lost  even  the  power 
of  imagining,  is  a  single  passion  that  shall 
sway  or  fulfil  one's  life.  Love  seems  to  me 
now  to  be  very  much  like  temper.  Your 
dearest  friend  can  irritate  you  into  the  one; 
the  most  commonplace  woman  can  trick  you 
into  the  other :  and  you  adore  in  the  latter 
case,  and  you  accuse  and  abuse  in  the  former, 
in  a  way  which  by  and  by  you  can  only  stu- 
pidly wonder  at.  I  do  not  want  to  speak  cyn- 
ically about  this.  A  cynic  is  a  foolish  fellow 
who  either  is  ignorant,  or  pretends  to  be,  of 
a  good  third  of  an  average  man's  motives — 
those  that  are  not  contemptible ;  and  I  know 
that  love,  as  a  fact,  can  be  pure  and  true  and 
faithful,  and  that  it  is  really  to  many  the  one 
thing  worth  living  for.  I  only  speak  for  my- 
self ;  and  all  that  I  can  see  in  it  is  a  passion- 
ate perversity  both  of  judgment  and  of  feeling. 
It  exaggerates  the  value  of  the  special  indi- 
vidual, just  as  cynicism  does  the  opposite  for 
the  race  in  general.  The  concentrated  praise 
is  as  false  as  the  diffused  censure.  Each  is 
equally  silly  to  the  eye  of  the  calm  judgment. 
My  wish  now  is  for  no  emotion  but  such  as  I 


52  A  Romance  of 

can  master.  I  wish  to  possess  myself,  not  to 
appropriate  others ;  and  with  regard  to  wo- 
men I  agree  with  the  poet  Donne — 

"  '  I  can  love  her  and  her,  and  you  and  you  ; 
I  can  love  any,  so  she  be  but  true.' " 

"  I  did  not  expect,"  said  Lord  Surbiton, 
"when  I  called  you  a  lover,  to  find  you  still 
content  at  thirty  with  the  intangible  charms 
of  a  moon-goddess.  As  we  live  on,  we  are 
obliged  to  take  the  attainable,  and  do  our 
best  to  idealize  that.  You  say  you  are  not 
constant.  Well,  no  true  artist  is,  and  you 
have  the  artist's  temper,  I  see,  just  as  you 
have  the  poet's — two  things  which  by  no 
means  always  go  together,  indeed  to  unite 
them  is  a  rare  triumph  of  character.  Many 
poets  perhaps  might  have  drawn  a  Des- 
demona :  only  an  artistic  poet  could  have 
drawn  an  I  ago  also.  What  marks  the  poetic 
temper  is  the  intensity  of  its  sympathy ; 
what  marks  the  artistic  is  the  versatility. 
The  artist  not  only  feels  much,  but  he  also 
feels  many  things ;  and  in  this  way  he 
always  preserves  his  balance.  Every  one 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  53 

at  the  beginning  has  had  the  makings  of 
several  characters  in  him.  The  artist  has 
the  makings  of  an  indefinite  number.  Most 
men,  farther  out  of  their  possible  characters, 
harden  or  settle  down  with  one,  but  the  ar- 
tist never  does ;  for  character  is  nothing  but 
prejudice  grown  permanent,  and  the  artist 
has  no  character,  just  as  the  chameleon  is 
said  to  have  no  color.  His  only  identity 
has  reference  to  his  inner  self.  And  thus 
when  vulgar  critics  say  with  reference  to 
some  artistic  writer's  creations — when  they 
say,  as  they  do  of  me,  for  instance,  '  Here 
are  his  own  feelings;  he  has  drawn  this  man 
from  himself,'  they  are  at  once  right  and 
wrong.  He  has  not  only  drawn  this  man 
from  himself,  but  he  has  drawn  all;  for  he 
becomes  himself  some  new  man  to  be  drawn 
from,  every  time  he  suppresses  some  newly- 
combined  nine-tenths  of  himself.  This,  Ver- 
non,  is  the  true  artistic  versatility ;  and  her 
Grace — who  by  the  way  is  an  uncommonly 
shrewd  woman — at  once  saw  you  possessed 
it.  You  can  respond  in  the  same  half-hour, 
she  told  you,  to  the  beauty  of  Diana  and  of 


54  A  Romance  of 

Venus.  Such  versatility  is  the  true  elixir  of 
youth,  it  makes  even  the  wisdom  of  age  sup- 
ple. My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  somewhat 
coming  down  from  his  pedestal,  "  constancy, 
though  we  know  its  value  for  most  men,  is 
the  elixir  of  middle  age.  It  makes  you  five- 
and-forty  at  once,  and  it  keeps  you  there." 

Vernon  at  this  moment  let  his  eye  wander, 
and  a  sudden  exclamation  broke  from  him 
which  at  once  put  a  stop  to  philosophy. 

"  Damn  it !  "  he  said,  "  we  have  been  talk- 
ing of  dead  Dianas  ;  and  meanwhile  the  liv- 
ing one  has  taken  flight  and  deserted  us." 

Lord  Surbiton  turned  his  head,  and  saw 
that  the  fair  stranger  and  her  companion  had 
gone.  When  feminine  beauty  was  concerned, 
he  was  always  prompt  and  practical ;  and  he 
at  once  set  about  rising,  though  his  move- 
ments were  somewhat  slow. 

"  She  can't  have  gone  far,"  he  said.  "  We 
shall  be  sure  to  see  her  again  somewhere  ; 
and  her  Grace,  or  Captain  Grantly,  will  find 
out  all  about  her  for  us.  Or  failing  these, 
there  is  that  fellow,  Stapleton." 

He    took  Vernon's  arm  with  a  slow  and 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  55 

solemn  dignity,  and  the  two  left  the  res- 
taurant. They  paused  in  the  cloak-room, 
which  is  just  outside,  and  Lord  Surbiton  was 
being  helped  by  a  garden  into  a  magnificent 
sable  overcoat,  when  a  lady  appeared  on  the 
scene,  with  a  look  that  at  once  attracted  him. 
This  was  none  other  than  the  lady  of  the  red 
fan.  She  had  come  for  her  opera-cloak ;  and 
before  Vernon  was  even  aware  of  her  pres- 
ence, Lord  Surbiton,  with  as  quick  a  gal- 
lantry as  his  years  permitted  him,  was 
arranging  it  tenderly  for  her,  over  her  finely- 
shaped  shoulders. 

He  was  sufficiently  delighted  with  his 
performance  thus  far;  but  a  still  greater 
pleasure  awaited  him.  The  lady  cast  a 
glance  at  him  with  her  soft  appealing  eyes, 
and  murmured,  " Merci,  milord"  She  did 
not  blush,  but  she  looked  much  as  if  she 
would  have  wished  to  have  done  so.  Lord 
Surbiton  at  once  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
and  was  begging  to  be  told  how  he  was 
honored  by  madame  knowing  him.  "  Ah," 
she  replied,  "  and  need  a  renowned  man 
ask  ?  Why,  the  poems  and  the  romances 


56  A  Romance  of 

of  Monsieur  are  as  much  read  in  Paris  as  in 
London."  Here  she  caught  sight  of  Vernon  ; 
and,  with  the  quietest  smile  in  the  world,  "  I 
am  going,"  she  went  on,  "  once  more  to  the 
tables.  Will  not  you  two  come,  and  join 
your  luck  with  mine  ?  " 

Lord  Surbiton  was  completely  charmed 
with  her,  and  regretted  not  a  little  that  to  do 
this  was  impossible.  He  was  almost  aware 
of  a  slight  pang  of  jealousy  when  she  bid 
Vernon  to  put  in  more  securely  a  diamond 
pin  that  had  become  loose  in  her  hair. 

Vernon's  hands  lingered  over  the  soft 
brown  plaits.  "  You  are  very  lovely,"  he 
said,  "  though,  of  course,  you  don't  require 
me  to  tell  you  that ;  and  my  morals  will  bid 
you  play  with  my  heart,  though  my  prudence, 
I  fear,  forbids  me  to  let  you  play  with  my 
fortune." 

He  was  in  the  middle  of  uttering  this, 
when  he  glanced  aside  for  a  moment,  and  his 
eyes  met  those  of  the  girl  to  seek  whom  he 
had  just  risen  from  the  dinner-table.  It  was 
but  a  glance  she  gave  him  ;  and  then  her  fair 
head  was  averted :  but  the  glance  and  the 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  57 

gesture  were  only  too  expressive  to  him. 
She  seemed  at  once  to  comprehend  and  be 
surprised  at  the  scene  he  was  taking  part  in. 
A  disagreeable  sense  of  shame  at  once  came 
over  him  ;  nor  were  his  reflections  made 
pleasanter  by  what  he  observed  next  mo- 
ment. As  the  girl,  with  her  companion,  was 
quitting  the  cloak-room,  he  was  just  able  to 
see  her  face  light  up  for  an  instant ;  and 
directly  afterwards  Colonel  Stapleton  entered. 
The  Colonel  seemed  almost  as  versatile 
as  Lord  Surbiton  himself ;  for  he  was  quite 
as  familiar  with  the  fair  Aspasia  as  he  had 
been  a  moment  before  with  the  pale  and 
virginal  stranger.  Vernon  and  Lord  Sur- 
biton had  been  conversing  with  the  former 
lady  in  French  ;  and  his  lordship,  who  was 
somewhat  deaf,  had  pronounced  her  accent 
perfect.  The  Colonel,  however,  to  whom  she 
turned  instantly,  composedly  addressed  some 
chaff  to  her  in  the  homeliest  English  possible  ; 
and  she  with  an  equal  fluency,  though  with  a 
strong  foreign  twang,  replied,  "  If  you  don't 
look  out,  I  shall  smack  your  nasty  little  head 
for  you." 


58  A  Romance  of 

Vernon  started  at  this  astounding  utter- 
ance, as  if  an  adder  had  stung  him.  "  Good 
Heavens!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  "what 
an  absolute  fool  I  am  ! "  And  not  without 
some  brusquerie,  which  the  fair  one  mistook 
for  jealousy,  he  succeeded  in  withdrawing 
Lord  Surbiton,  and  making  a  hasty  exit. 
"Her  French,"  he  muttered,  "may  be  the 
French  of  the  Faubourg,  but  her  English  is 
very  certainly  the  English  of  Regent  Street." 

Lord  Surbiton,  however,  had  completely 
missed  the  above  piece  of  badinage;  and 
pausing  on  the  hotel  door-steps,  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  Vernon's  arm,  "  What  a  woman 
that  is !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  slow  gravity. 
"  It  is  her  class  that  the  soul  of  the  old  world 
still  lives  on,  with  its  passion,  its  grace,  and 
its  intellect ;  and  we,  in  our  barbarous  vir- 
tue, actually  affect  to  look  down  on  her.  A 
woman  like  that  ought  to  have  lived  at 
Athens,  and  have  had  a  Pericles  for  her 
companion,  and  a  Socrates  for  her  pupil." 

Vernon  made  no  response  to  this.  His 
thoughts  were  still  busy  with  those  clear 
eyes  that  had  humbled  him.  "  So  much,"  he 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  59 

said  bitterly  to  himself,  "  for  a  woman's  power 
of  insight !  She  looks  nothing  but  scorn  at 
me,  and  yet  smiles  like  a  sister  at  that  fat, 
sensual  beast  there ! " 

Before  long  Lord  Surbiton  began  again, 
as  they  went  in  the  direction  where  they  ex- 
pected to  find  their  party.  "  Ah,  my  dear 
Vernon,"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  sigh  that 
made  his  satin  necktie  creak,  "  it  is  the  artist's 

gift "     Here  he  paused  for  a  moment  to 

eye  critically  two  young  ladies  who  passed 
him.  "  It  is  the  artist's  gift,"  he  resumed, 
"  to  discern  between  good  and  evil ;  it  is  his 
doom  to  be  the  servant  of  neither.  He  sur- 
veys life  as  a  Caesar  surveyed  the  circus ;  and 
the  affections  and  lusts  of  men  can  to  him 
say  nothing  but  morituri  te  salutant.  He 
belongs  to  a  middle  race  who  are  neither 
divine  nor  human,  and  he  cannot  really  ally 
himself  with  any  human  being.  This  is  why, 
when  he  dies,  there  are  no  flowers  strewn  on 
his  tomb — no  rosemary  for  remembrance,  or 
pansies  for  tender  thoughts ;  but  only  the 
bloomless  laurel — the  leaf,  not  of  love,  but 
of  homage." 


60  A  Romance  of 

"  Lord  Surbiton" — it  was  the  voice  of  the 
Duchess — "when  you've  done  quoting  po- 
etry, you'll  find  us  all  here,  ready  for  you 
to  discover  us."  She  was  seated  with  the 
Grantlys,  outside  the  cafe,  at  a  round  table 
laden  with  cups  and  liqueur-glasses.  "  See," 
she  went  on,  "we  have  ordered  everything, 
and  we  have  been  so  thoughtful  that  we  have 
even  kept  chairs  for  you." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Lord  Surbiton, 
"  that  your  Grace  has  kept  two  apiece  for 
us." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Duchess,  laughing,  "those 
two  other  chairs  are  for  some  particular 
friends  of  mine,  whom  I  asked  just  now  to 
come  and  have  their  coffee  with  us.  Now, 
Mr.  Vernon,  here  is  a  riddle  for  you.  Who 
should  you  think  these  particular  friends  are  ? 
Why,  your  fair  friend  of  the  restaurant,  and 
the  old  lady,  her  aunt.  I  met  them  five 
minutes  ago,  as  we  were  coming  here  from 
the  gambling-rooms,  and  it  flashed  on  me  all 
of  a  sudden  who  the  aunt  was.  You,  Lord 
Surbiton,  will  remember  her.  She's  the 
widow  of  Sir  Edward  Walters,  who  was  our 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  61 

minister  for  so  many  years  at  Stuttgart ;  and 
the  girl — I  remember  her  too,  quite  well,  now 
—is  that  beautiful  Cynthia  Walters,  who  was 
made  such  a  fuss  about  in  London  three 
seasons  ago,  and  then  got  ill,  and  has  never 
appeared  since.  Her  home,  it  seems,  is  now 
with  her  aunt  in  Florence." 

"  Look  out,  Duchess,"  said  Captain  Grant- 
ly.     "  Here  they  are  coming." 


62  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   V. 

T  ADY  WALTERS  was  like  a  woman 
who  had  once  known  the  world,  but 
who  hardly  knew  it  now  ;  for  knowledge  of 
the  world  can  be  forgotten  like  other  knowl- 
edge, and  from  certain  gentle  natures  it  slips 
away  easily. 

She  and  Lord  Surbiton  had  an  extremely 
friendly  greeting,  and  settled  down  at  once 
into  a  talk  over  old  days.  As  for  Vernon, 
his  position  was  less  comfortable.  The 
Duchess  introduced  him  to  Miss  Walters, 
who  had  at  first  been  unaware  of  his  pres- 
ence :  but  the  instant  she  recognized  him  the 
smile  died  on  her  lips,  and  she  acknowledged 
his  bow  as  coldly  as  any  young  lady  of  fash- 
ion who  seems  to  deny  an  acquaintance  in 
the  very  act  of  formally  making  it. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  63 

Vernon  felt  utterly  worsted  by  her  perfect 
savoir  faire;  and  what  added  not  a  little  to 
his  suffering  was  that  the  Duchess  should 
witness  his  discomfiture,  without  knowing 
what  he  felt  sure  was  the  cause  of  it.  Too 
proud  or  self-conscious  to  risk  any  further 
repulse,  he  listened  silently  to  the  girl's  an- 
swers, as  the  Duchess  put  her  through  a 
rapid  catechism.  "  We  have  taken,"  she  said, 
"a  villa  beyond  Nice,  in  the  country.  We 
arrived  but  three  days  ago,  from  Florence. 
We  came  over  here  this  afternoon  for  the 
music  ;  but  missed  our  train  back  again,  and 
so  had  to  remain  for  dinner.  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  have  done  if  Colonel  Staple- 
ton,  whom  I  have  known  from  a  child,  had 
not  secured  a  table  for  us.  I  think  this  place 
horrible.  I  was  here  once  before,  and  I  de- 
tested it." 

Vernon  watched  her  intently  as  she  was 
giving  these  answers.  The  moments  were 
few  ;  but  to  him  they  were  like  a  long  dream. 
He  seemed  to  become  familiar  with  all  the 
folds  of  her  drapery,  and  each  outline  of  arm 
or  figure  that  her  dress  revealed  or  hinted  at 


64  A  Romance  of 

The  impression  her  presence  made  on  him 
was  complex  and  singular.  There  was  a 
subtle  air  with  her  of  fastidious  fashion,  from 
her  hat  to  her  pointed  shoes,  and  the  long 
black  gloves  concealing  her  dainty  hands. 
But  this  was  not  all,  or  at  any  rate  Vernon 
thought  not.  She  seemed  not  only  a  woman 
of  fashion,  but  a  woman  of  fashion  who  had 
the  soul  of  a  sibyl  in  her  ;  and  her  clear  eyes 
seemed  touched  with  some  high,  wistful  mel- 
ancholy. 

The  impression  she  made  on  the  Duchess 
was  different.  Her  Grace  had  found  Miss 
Walters  somewhat  chilly  in  manner ;  so  she 
brought  her  questions  pretty  soon  to  a  close, 
and  addressed  herself  to  Mrs.  Grantly.  Ver- 
non hoped  with  trembling  that  now  might  be 
his  chance  :  but  no,  it  was  not  to  be.  Miss 
Walters  turned  away  from  him,  and  seemed 
lost  in  the  scene  before  her.  That  scene  was 
one  which  is  certainly  unique  in  Europe,  and 
it  was  now  wearing  its  strangest  and  most 
striking  aspect.  The  large  place,  with  its 
gleaming  buildings  round  it,  was  a  lake  of 
transparent  shadow,  dotted  with  countless 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  65 

gas-lamps,  and  full  of  the  vague  whispers  of 
fountains  and  human  life.  On  one  side  flared 
the  hotel  they  had  lately  quitted,  on  another 
the  great  casino,  pale  like  a  skeleton  from 
globes  of  electric  light.  On  another,  where 
the  buildings  were  lower  and  more  broken,  tall 
palms  might  be  seen,  with  their  plumes  in  the 
clear  sky  ;  and  beyond  were  balustrades  of 
marble,  and  spaces  of  dark  sea  :  whilst  behind, 
and  in  grim  contrast,  rose  the  barren  towering 
mountains,  and  dwarfed  the  world  at  the  foot 
of  them  into  a  small  cluster  of  fire-flies. 

Lord  Surbiton  had  been  on  the  watch  to 
attract  Miss  Walters'  attention,  and  he  now 
saw  his  opportunity. 

"  This  place,"  he  said,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  her,  "always  seems  to  me  like  the  moral 
sewer  of  Europe — a  great  drain's  mouth,  open 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills.  There  is  a  tragic  irony 
in  its  loveliness." 

"Tragic  or  not,"  said  the  Duchess,  "we 
have  had  a  most  amusing  dinner  here  ;  haven't 
we,  Mrs.  Grantly  ?  Though  I'm  sure  I've 
forgotten  by  this  time  what  it  was  we  were 
talking  about." 


66  A  Romance  of 

"  A  proof,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "  of  how 
well  your  Grace  was  conversing.  True  con- 
versation is  like  good  champagne.  It  exhila- 
rates for  the  moment,  but  next  morning  we 
feel  no  trace  of  it."  ^ .. 

Vernon  here  broke  silence.  "If  true  con- 
versation," he  said,  "  is  like  good  champagne, 
true  love  is  like  bad.  False  and  true  love  may 
seem  just  the  same  when  we  taste  them.  We 
only  detect  the  true  when  we  find  that  our 
head  aches  afterwards." 

"  That,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  still  looking 
towards  Miss  Walters,  "  is  why  a  serious  pas- 
sion is  so  great  an  educator.  But  its  work 
only  begins  when  the  pain  it  causes  has  left 
us.  Strong  present  feeling  narrows  our  sym- 
pathies, strong  past  feeling  enlarges  them. 
Thus  a  woman  of  the  world  always  should 
have  been,  but  should  never  be,  in  love.  She 
should  always  have  had  a  grief  :  she  should 
never  have  a  grievance." 

41  Why,"  asked  Miss  Walters  coldly, "do  you 
say  this  of  a  woman  of  the  world  especially  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  only  in  the  world,  or  in 
what  we  call  society,  that  intercourse  with  our 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  67 

fellows  is  really  a  completed  fine  art.  It  there 
is  what  elsewhere  it  only  tends  to  be.  Men 
who  profess  to  think  gravely,  or  to  have  grave 
ends,  speak  of  society  as  the  type  of  what  is 
vain  and  frivolous.  Perhaps  they  are  right — 
who  knows  ?  Yet  society  is  the  logical  end 
of  the  whole  of  this  world's  civilization ;  and 
of  all  the  follies  that  I  ever  set  any  store  by, 
fashion  is  the  one  I  could  still  find  most  to 
say  for.  Fashion,"  he  continued,  "  is  the 
daintiest  form  of  fame,  and  sometimes  of 
power  also  ;  and  were  it  only  as  wide  and 
lasting  as  it  is  delicate,  it  would  unite  in  itself 
the  objects  of  all  human  ambitions." 

"  Are  the  objects  of  ambition,"  said  Miss 
Walters,  "  the  chief  objects  of  life  ? " 

"  Men  in  general,"  said  Lord  Surbiton, 
"  are  the  puppets  of  three  forces — ambition, 
love,  and  hunger  ;  but  love  destroys  the  appe- 
tite ;  ambition  destroys  love ;  and  fashion  ab- 
sorbs, or  at  any  rate  sways,  ambition." 

These  general  maxims  did  not  much  delight 
the  Duchess,  and  she  betrayed  at  this  juncture 
that  her  thoughts  had  been  somewhat  wan- 
dering. 


68  A  Romance  of 

"  Captain  Grantly,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  won- 
der whose  are  those  horses  that  are  waiting 
there  at  the  door  of  the  casino — the  pair  of 
grays,  I  mean,  in  that  rather  smart-looking 
carriage.  I  watched  them  drive  round,  five 
minutes  ago  ;  and  the  near  one,  do  you  know, 
is  really  a  first-rate  stepper." 

This  profane  interruption  put  a  stop  to 
Lord  Surbiton's  eloquence,  for  Miss  Walters 
turned  round  and  began  to  look  at  the  horses , 
whilst  her  aunt,  hearing  a  railway  whistle,  con- 
sulted her  watch,  and  said  they  must  soon  be 
moving.  "  However,"  she  added, "  there  must 
be  plenty  of  time  yet,  as  Colonel  Stapleton  said 
he  would  come  and  see  us  safe  to  the  station.' 

"  I,  too,"  said  Vernon,"am  reminded  to  think 
of  moving ;  for  I  see  my  carriage  is  already 
there  waiting  for  me.  Confound  Colonel  Sta- 
pleton ! — I  wish  he  was  at  the  devil  ! " 

"  What ! "  said  the  Duchess,  "  and  is  that 
fine  turn-out  yours,  Mr.  Vernon  ?  Well,  here's 
luxury  for  a  young  man  of  thirty  ! " 

"  By  Gad,  my  dear  chap,  you  are  a  swell," 
said  Captain  Grantly,  putting  his  hand  on 
Vernon's  shoulder. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  69 

Wealth  has  a  certain  power  over  those  even 
who  are  least  touched  by  it.  It  calls  their 
attention  to  the  man  possessing  it,  if  only  to 
make  it  worth  their  while  to  despise  him  ;  and 
Vernon  knew  in  an  instant  that  Miss  Walters 
turned  to  glance  at  him.  Once  again  he  was 
about  to  attempt  speaking  to  her,  when  he 
was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Colonel 
Stapleton. 

"  Here's  a  go,"  cried  the  Colonel,  panting 
and  out  of  breath,  "  I've  been  looking  for  you, 
Lady  Walters,  for  the  last  twenty  minutes  ; 
and  now  your  train's  gone,  and  you  must  stop 
the  night  here.  If  you'll  let  me,  I'll  get  you 
rooms  directly  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  The 

Princesse  de and  the  Prince  for  the  time 

being  have  just  cleared  out  unexpectedly  ;  so 
I  know  they  can  take  you  in,  and  we'll  show 
Miss  Cynthia  a  little  more  of  the  life  here." 

"If  you  stop,  you  know,"  said  the  Duchess, 
"  there  is  my  maid  here  who  can  look  after 
you.  I  can  lend  you  almost  everything ;  and 
you  can  buy  a  tooth-brush  here." 

Miss  Walters  turned  to  Colonel  Stapleton 
with  a  hasty  frown.  "  No — no,"  she  said,  "  let 


7O  A  Romance  of 

us  do  anything  rather  than  that.  This  place 
is  perfectly  unendurable." 

Vernon  observed  her  closely,  and  with  ex- 
treme surprise.  She  spoke  in  a  manner  that 
would  have  been  rudeness  to  any  human  ac- 
quaintance even  of  long  standing,  but  the 
Colonel,  strange  to  say,  was  not  in  the  least 
abashed  by  it ;  he  only  eyed  her  with  a  look 
of  quiet  amazement.  "  Come,  little  vixen,"  he 
whispered,  "don't  be  naughty.  I'm  sure  Aunt 
Louisa  will  give  her  vote  for  staying." 

But  Lady  Walters  wished  to  do  no  such 
thing  ;  and  she  was  already  inquiring  ner- 
vously if  there  would  be  any  difficulty  in  get- 
ting a  carriage.  "  Come,"  said  Miss  Walters, 
taking  hold  of  Colonel  Stapleton's  sleeve,  "  be 
good,  and  go  and  tell  her  about  it.  We  mean 
to  go  somehow,  so  you  may  as  well  make 
yourself  of  use  to  us." 

He  was  forestalled,  however,  by  Captain 
Grantly,  who  had  at  once  volunteered  to  go 
off  to  the  livery-stables,  and  was  just  starting 
when  he  was  recalled  by  the  practical  Duchess. 
"  You  may  as  well  find  out  first,"  she  said, 
"  where  it  is  Lady  Walters  wants  to  be  driven 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  71 

to ;  for  at  this  time  of  night  they  will  often 
refuse  to  take  you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Lady  Walters,  somewhat 
troubled  by  this,  "it  is  to  the  Cap  de  Juan. 
It  is  a  long  way  by  the  road,  I'm  afraid. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  we  had  better  remain  here." 

Vernon  felt  all  the  blood  rush  at  once  to 
his  face  ;  and  for  a  moment  his  heart  stopped 
beating. 

"  The  Cap  de  Juan  !  "  exclaimed  the  Duch- 
ess ;  "  why  that  settles  everything.  Come, 
Mr.  Vernon,  now  is  your  opportunity.  My 
dear  Lady  Walters,  here  is  a  young  man  with 
a  carriage  and  horses  ready,  who  is  only  too 
anxious  to  take  you  back  to  your  very  door- 
step." 

A  rapid  look  of  annoyance  passed  over 
Miss  Walters'  face.  "  We  couldn't  think,"  she 
said,  with  a  cold  politeness,  "  of  taking  Mr. 
Vernon's  horses  so  great  a  distance.  He  is 
hardly  aware,  perhaps,  of  the  journey  there  is 
before  us." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  am 
particularly  well  aware  of  it,  for  it  is  the  very 
journey  that  is  also  before  me.  If  I  am  not 


72  A  Romance  of 

much  mistaken,  we  are  all  but  next-door 
neighbors.  Your  house,  I  think,  must  be  the 
Chateau  St.  John ;  and,  if  so,  our  two  gardens 
touch  each  other." 

After  this  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  Circumstances  had  at  length  played 
into  Vernon's  hands ;  and  another  caprice  in 
his  life  was  to  be  at  least  partially  gratified. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Duchess,  as  the  carriage 
drove  off,  "I'm  glad  Mr.  Vernon  has  got  what 
he  wanted,  though  Miss  Cynthia,  at  first,  was, 
I  must  say,  very  snubby  to  him.  However, 
one  can  never  judge  by  this.  Perhaps,  when 
we  go  to  the  Cap  de  Juan,  we  shall  find  them 
an  engaged  couple.  Who  knows  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  and  I'll  bet 
you  anything  we  shall  not.  A  man  like  Mr. 
Vernon  will  never  marry.  He's  exactly,"  she 
added,  dropping  her  voice,  "  like  a  younger 
edition  of  Lord  Surbiton ;  and  I  guess  they're 
a  couple  of  shams — the  two  of  them." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  that  Mr. 
Vernon  is  charming." 

"  Yes — to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  but 
not  to  depend  upon." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  73 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"TTERNON  and  his  friends  were  mean- 
while hastening  homewards.  Lady  Wal- 
ters had  addressed  to  him  a  few  kind  civil- 
ities, eyeing  him  the  while  with  a  look  of 
trustful  friendliness  ;  but  her  niece  had  hardly 
said  anything,  and  the  three  soon  sank  into 
silence.  Every  influence,  indeed,  seemed  to 
persuade  to  it — the  easy  motion  of  the  car- 
riage, the  rhythmic  tramp  of  the  horses,  the 
soft  fanning  of  the  night  air,  and  the  pageant 
of  sea  and  mountain  that  was  sweeping  past 
them  like  a  dream.  Here  was  a  gaudy  villa, 
surmounted  by  a  huge  coronet,  the  home 
of  some  Russian  gambler ;  there,  with  domes 
and  minarets,  a  dwelling  yet  more  fantastic. 
Scents  of  flowers  blew  down  to  them  from 
the  gardens ;  and  over  the  garden  walls  hung 


74  A  Romance  of 

spiked  aloes  and  cactuses.  Then  presently 
the  scene  grew  wilder.  On  the  right,  wooded 
gorges  slanted  up  into  the  mountains ;  and 
on  the  left,  the  sea  below  them  broke  into 
fairy  bays.  All  this  seemed  to  absorb  Miss 
Walters ;  and  her  eyes  being  thus  occupied, 
Vernon  was  able  unobserved  to  observe  her. 
He  had  once  remarked,  in  one  of  his  more 
delicate  moods,  that  a  woman  whose  dress  is 
the  perfection  of  fashion,  is  never  herself  the 
perfection  of  real  refinement.  But  he  now 
felt  inclined  to  modify  this  judgment.  The 
vanities  of  this  world  seemed,  on  the  girl 
before  him,  as  natural  as  its  own  petals  to 
some  delicate  garden  flower  ;  so  that  she  was 
as  little  troubled  by  their  possession  as  the 
saint  is  who  has  renounced  them.  "  The 
effect  of  her  presence,"  Vernon  wrote  that 
night  in  his  dwy,  "was  at  once  charming 
and  singular.  It  did  not  at  first  concentrate 
my  thoughts  on  herself;  but  it  moved  like 
a  wind  amongst  them,  and  stirred  them  in 
all  directions.  Vague  aspirations  of  many 
kinds  awoke  in  me.  I  longed  in  grotesque 
rotation  to  make  poetry,  to  ride  hard,  and  to 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  75 

pray ;  and  when  something  awoke  the  aunt, 
and  between  two  sleeps  she  talked  a  little  to 
me,  I  was  annoyed  and  jarred  by  having  the 
silence  broken." 

Lady  Walters,  it  is  true,  had  begun  some- 
what abruptly.  "  What  a  pity  it  is,"  she  said, 
as  though  following  up  some  train  of  thought 
of  her  own,  "  that  Jack  Stapleton  never  mar- 
ried. He  is  naturally  such  a  kind,  good  crea- 
ture. It  is  self-indulgence  that  has  ruined 
him." 

"And  do  you  think,"  said  Vernon,  "that 
marriage  will  always  save  a  man  ?  " 

"Not  always,"  she  said,  "and  it  never 
affects  a  man  as  it  does  a  woman.  Yet  some 
men,  Mr.  Vernon,  are  ruined  for  the  want  of 
it — often  those  with  the  warmest  and  sweetest 
natures.  You  know  the  man  that  his  friends 
call  a  good  fellow — who,  like  a  sun-flower, 
always  turns  towards  happiness.  If  such  a 
man  has  a  wife  he  cares  for,  he  will  live  that 
he  may  make  her  happy  ;  but  if  left  to  him- 
self, shall  I  tell  you  what  will  happen  to  him  ? 
He  will  live  not  to  give  pleasure  but  to  find  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Vernon,  with 


76  A  Romance  of 

a  slight  involuntary  sigh.  "  I  certainly  knew 
this  much  from  experience,  that  to  like  con- 
sorting with  happy  people  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  trying  to  make  people  happy. 
But  how  should  you  say  that  marriage  af- 
fected women  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Lady  Walters,  "  in  another  way 
entirely.  When  a  woman  marries  with  af- 
fection her  whole  character  changes.  She 
grows  absorbed  in  the  things  that  absorb  her 
husband ;  and,  through  him,  they  become 
really  a  new  life  to  her." 

"  If  I  thought  of  marrying,"  said  Vernon, 
"  it  would  be  with  a  different  hope.  I  should 
hope  to  find  a  wife,  who,  if  she  had  any  tastes 
at  all,  had  had  them  before  she  knew  me  ; 
and  that  her  already  possessing  them  were  a 
cause  of  her  sympathy  ;  not  that  her  acquir- 
ing them  for  my  sake  were  the  signs  of  it.  I 
should  like  her  life  to  stand  on  its  own  basis ; 
and  in  her  pursuits  I  should  like  to  have  a 
constant  rival,  that  should  keep  my  affection 
fresh  with  a  kind  of  stingless  jealousy." 

Lady  Walters  smiled  at  him  incredulous- 
ly, with  half-closed  eyes.  "  I  am  afraid,  Mr. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  77 

Vernon,"  she  said,  "  you've  never  been  in  love 
yet."  Then  the  conversation  dropped  ;  and 
it  was  soon  evident  that  she  had  again  fallen 
asleep.  Vernon  was  pleased  to  have  been 
able  to  talk  in  Miss  Walters'  hearing,  since  he 
found  her  so  difficult  of  direct  access  ;  and  he 
now  fancied  that  she  looked  a  little  less  coldly 
at  him.  Presently  she  asked  him  of  her  own 
accord  the  name  of  some  place  they  were 
passing.  He  answered  her  question  ;  but  he 
found  he  could  get  no  farther.  In  spite  of 
himself  he  was  still  embarrassed  in  her  pres- 
ence. The  remembrance  that  her  first  sight 
of  him  had  been  in  the  middle  of  his  foolish 
scene  with  the  Frenchwoman,  abased  him  in 
his  own  estimation  ;  he  was  in  a  thoroughly 
wrong  position.  He  leaned  his  head  back, 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars,  and  was  soon 
completely  lost  in  another  deep  reverie.  All 
of  a  sudden  the  tenure  of  his  thoughts  be- 
trayed itself.  He  broke  out  aloud  with  a 
single  line  from  Hamlet : — 

"Oh  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I." 

He  spoke  the  words  abstractedly,  and  for 


78  A  Romance  of 

a  second  or  two  seemed  not  to  know  he  had 
uttered  them.  Then  he  recollected  himself, 
and  there  might  have  been  an  awkward  mo- 
ment, if  Miss  Walters  with  ready  tact  had  not 
come  to  the  rescue. 

"  I  know  that  line  so  well,"  she  said  ;  "but 
I  can't  remember  where  it  comes  from." 

"  It  is  from  Hamlet"  said  Vernon,  " a  play 
I  know  by  heart ;  and  I  often  catch  myself 
repeating  bits  aloud  from  it." 

With  this  there  ensued  a  little  conversa- 
tion about  Shakespeare,  then  about  poetry 
generally  ;  and  matters  now  began  to  proceed 
more  smoothly.  Vernon  had  once  more 
found  his  footing.  His  thoughts,  his  feel- 
ings, and  his  words  began  to  flow  freely  as 
usual ;  and  when  he  looked  into  his  com- 
panion's eyes  he  found  she  did  not  avert 
them.  The  character  of  the  drive  now 
quickly  changed  for  him ;  and  it  soon  be- 
came as  delightful  as  it  had  been  disap- 
pointing hitherto.  His  beautiful  companion 
had  now  some  magnetic  effect  upon  him. 
Her  hand,  her  lips,  her  eye,  even  the  soft 
furs  on  her  jacket,  and  the  faint  perfume 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  79 

from  her  handkerchief  touched  his  being,  and 
made  the  blood  in  his  temples  tingle :  whilst 
every  taste  or  feeling  that  was  most  refined 
or  delicate,  seemed  suddenly  to  be  coming 
uppermost  under  the  attraction  of  her  pres- 
ence. To  a  man  of  Vernon's  temperament 
an  experience  of  this  kind  was  a  luxury.  The 
moral  recoil  from  the  low  and  frivolous  to  all 
that  was  pure  and  delicate,  was  in  itself  a 
pleasing  shock  to  the  intellectual  voluptuary  : 
whilst  the  sense  that  he  had  to  efface  a  bad 
impression  gave  double  earnestness  to  his 
efforts  to  create  a  good  one. 

In  all  this,  on  his  part,  there  was  no  acting. 
His  goodness,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  as 
genuine  as  his  evil  ;  and  his  voice,  his  look, 
and  his  manners,  as  he  now  spoke  to  Miss 
Walters,  were  quite  naturally  expressive  of 
the  most  chivalrous  and  tender  reverence. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  I 
happened  to  have  my  carriage,  and  was  able 
to  take  you  away  from  that  horrid  place 
there." 

"  But  if  you  think  the  place  horrid,"  she 
said  gently,  "why  do  you  go  yourself  to  it?" 


8o  A  Romance  of 

"  One  might  ask,  I  am  afraid,  that  question 
about  many  things.  I  went  there  to-day  for 
distraction — to  escape  from  my  own  company. 
It  did  well  enough  to  distract  me :  but  one 
wishes  to  shake  the  dust  off  one's  feet  after- 
wards." 

"Like  my  question,"  she  said,  "that  will 
apply  to  many  things.  But  are  you  living 
quite  alone  out  here  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Vernon,  "with  no  company 
but  my  books  and  thoughts ;  and,  though  I 
came  here  on  purpose  to  be  with  these,  I  am 
glad  sometimes  to  escape  from  them.  I  had 
hoped  to  have  brought  a  friend  with  me  ;  in- 
deed, perhaps  he  may  still  come.  The  best 
escape  from  one's  thoughts  is  a  friend  one  is 
really  fond  of." 

"That  is  hardly  a  flattering  light,"  she  said, 
"  in  which  to  regard  a  friend.  There  are  some 
unhappy  people  whose  only  chance  of  peace 
lies  in  forgetting  themselves;  but  such  people, 
I  believe,  have  made  themselves  unfit  for 
friendship.  I  look  on  a  friend  as  a  person 
who  will  help  one  to  find,  not  to  lose,  one's  self. 
If  you  want  to  lose  yourself,  you  should  always 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  81 

liva  in  society,  and  agree  with  Lord  Surbiton 
that  life's  highest  reward  is  fashion." 

"Are  you,  then,"  said  Vernon,  "  not  fond  of 
society  ?" 

"Of  course  for  happy  people  society  is  a 
healthy  thing  ;  but  how  one  mixes  in  it  de- 
pends on  one's  own  character.  One  can  be  the 
fashion,  and  yet  not  be  one's  self  a  fashionable, 
as  one  sees  in  the  case  of  many  of  the  greatest 
people  in  London.  I  may  myself  have  been 
less  in  the  world,  perhaps,  than  most  women 
of  my  age  ;  but  still  I  have  seen  plenty  of 
smart  society ;  indeed,  I  have  several  relatives 
who  seem  to  live  for  nothing  else  ;  and,  so  far 
as  I  can  tell,  nothing  hardens  the  heart  like 
fashion.  To  a  genuine  fine  lady — who  is  a 
very  different  person,  by  the  way,  from  a 
grande  dame — it  is  a  thing  next  to  impossi- 
ble to  value  character  rightly." 

"  And  yet  many  of  the  qualities,"  said  Ver- 
non, "  that  secure  most  applause  in  society, 
must  be  produced,  as  Lord  Surbiton  told 
us,  by  some  deeper  experiences  in  the  past. 
Take  singing,  for  instance  :  what  an  effect 
real  expression  has !  Well,  to  express  feel- 
6 


82  A  Romance  of 

ing  in  song,  the  singer  must  himself  have 
felt" 

"  Perhaps  so ;  and  for  that  very  reason  the 
most  touching  singing  has  sometimes  almost 
disgusted  me.  What  a  use  to  make  of  some 
buried  and  sacred  sorrow,  to  conjure  its  ghost 
up  that  it  may  secure  a  drawing-room  triumph 
for  us." 

"  One  may,  of  course,"  said  Vernon  gravely, 
"  exaggerate  views  like  these,  till  they  be- 
come false  and  fantastic.  But  in  my  heart 
I  believe  you  to  be  entirely  right.  To  be 
always  in  society  is  to  be  always  with  mere 
acquaintance,  and  with  acquaintances  who 
like  you  for  your  least  genuine  qualities.  I 
have  met  many  a  man  staying  in  country 
houses,  who  must  have  been  sickened,  as  he 
went  to  sleep,  by  what  he  had  said  or  laughed 
at  in  the  smoking-room  ;  and  yet  the  night 
after  he  has  done  just  the  same.  To  be 
always  in  this  way  with  the  world,  is  to  be 
always  estranged  from  one's  self ;  and  one's 
true  self,  like  other  sensitive  creatures,  will 
in  time  die  of  neglect,  or  at  least  be  ruined 
by  it. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  83 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Miss  Walters, 
"  what  I  said  just  now — that  a  true  friend  is 
a  person  with  whom  we  can  find,  not  lose 
ourselves  ?  I,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sigh  and 
a  slight  shudder,  "have  had  friends  of  two 
kinds,  true  and  false  ;  and  they  have  both 
done  all  they  could  for  me." 

"Are  you  cold?"  murmured  Vernon,  lean- 
ing forward  and  looking  at  her.  "  Let  me 
put  that  shawl  over  your  shoulders  for  you." 
No  lover  could  have  done  the  office  with 
more  tenderness,  or  at  the  same  time  with 
more  respect.  Then  for  a  moment  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  hers,  and  asked,  "  Are  you 
warmer  now  ?  "  The  look,  the  touch  formed 
a  new  crisis  in  their  relationship  ;  and  they 
both  grew  aware  of  this  by  a  new  tone  in 
their  voices.  Vernon  himself  was  surprised 
at  what  had  passed.  He  had  never  thought 
she  could  have  so  softened  towards  him  ;  but 
he  knew  that  it  was  so  by  her  two  words 
as  she  thanked  him.  And  now  with  a  soft 
sensation  he  felt  his  heart  expanding  ;  and 
grave  and  serious  thoughts  welled  up  to  his 
lips,  and  began  to  demand  utterance.  Should 


84  A  Romance  of 

he  go  on  and  utter  them,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
hers  ?  To  do  so,  he  knew,  could  be  an  ex- 
quisite self-indulgence.  It  would  be  like  a 
passionate  mental  kiss  to  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture opposite  him.  But  for  a  moment  he 
vacillated,  and  there  was  a  short  moral 
struggle  in  him.  Had  he  the  right  intention 
that  could  make  that  kiss  lawful  ?  Might 
not  the  very  feelings  he  wished  to  express 
be  wronged  by  his  then  expressing  them  ? 
Was  such  mental  passion  as  this,  with  its 
spasm  of  self-abandonment,  much  better  than 
its  physical  counterpart  ?  Conscience,  how- 
ever, was  weak,  and  was  swept  aside  by 
impulse. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  why  I  have 
come  out  here  ?  I  have  lost  my  self,  and  I 
wish  to  find  it  again.  I  wish  to  see  how  I 
stand  with  my  conscience,  and  to  know  what 
I  really  value.  This  is  a  task  in  which  no 
friend  can  help  one  ;  one  must  enter  into 
one's  own  chamber,  and  be  still,  for  it.  At 
present  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  that  I 
hardly  have  a  self ;  but  I  feel,  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  that  I  am  being  swept  passively 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  85 

through  changing  states  of  consciousness. 
Some  may  be  pleasant  enough,  some  dull 
and  dreary  ;  but  they  are  all  shadowy  things  ; 
I  have  no  abiding  part  in  them,  nor  is  one 
bound  by  any  chain  to  the  other.  I  seem  to 
be  swept  through  them,  just  as  we  in  this 
carriage  are  being  swept  through  this  ghostly 
landscape.  What  I  want  is,  to  wake  myself 
from  this  idle  dream  of  the  world,  and  to  get 
back  again  to  the  realities  I  was  once  familiar 
with.  Such  a  waking  is  a  long,  weary  pro- 
cess ;  and  a  friend's  presence  may  soothe 
one  in  it  though  he  cannot  help  it  forward. 
Is  that,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  sadly  into  his 
companion's  eyes,  "  is  that  a  wrong  view  of 
friendship  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  view,"  she  said,  "but  no  one 
can  answer  for  another.  If  I  had  to  seek  a 
self  that  was  lost,  I  should  like  to  have  a 
friend  with  me." 

"To  encourage  you,  yes  ;  but  not  to  share 
your  labor.  You,  for  instance,  would  not  re- 
arrange my  life  for  me  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  great 
help  to  me,  even  this  little  talk  I  have  had 
with  you.  You  and  I  are  near  neighbors 


86  A  Romance  of 

now.     Do  you  think  we  shall  ever  become 
friends  ?  " 

She  gave  him  for  the  moment  no  direct 
answer,  but  murmured  half  abstractedly,  "  I 
wonder  how  far  you  have  wandered." 

"  That,"  said  Vernon,  "  is  what  I  want  to 
find  out  myself." 

After  this  there  was  a  pause,  whilst  the 
two  sank  back  into  their  own  reflections,  and 
the  changing  fields  and  trees,  as  the  carriage 
hurried  onwards,  surrounded  and  drifted  away 
from  them.  Vernon  at  least  was  in  pleasure, 
if  not  in  happiness. 

Miss  Walters  at  length  began  again.  "  Per- 
haps you  are  surprised,"  she  said,  with  a 
faint  smile,  "  at  hearing  me  talk  so  decidedly 
about  the  world,  and  society,  and  friendship." 

"  You  certainly  talk,"  said  Vernon,  "  as  if 
you  had  had  experience." 

"  I  have  had  experience,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  had  much — too  much  of  it.  I  have 
been  a  gambler,  amongst  other  things.  I 
won  more  than  two  thousand  pounds  once 
at  trente  et  quarante.  Do  you  think  that 
was  very  nice  of  me?"  And  she  fixed  her 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  87 

eyes  on  him  with  a  look  which  he  could  not 
fathom.  "  You  see,  if  I  hate  Monte  Carlo,  it 
is  not  because  gambling  has  ruined  me.  And 
now,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  going  to  say  one 
thing  more,  which  sounds  also  like  the  maxim 
of  a  rather  experienced  person.  It  is  an  an- 
swer to  what  you  asked  me  just  now.  I  have 
little  belief,  as  a  rule,  in  friendships  between 
men  and  women.  I  mean  when  both  the 
people  concerned  have  youth  and  imagina- 
tion. One  or  the  other  gets  generally  more 
or  less  than  was  bargained  for." 

"  I  shall  be  thankful,"  said  Vernon,  "  for 
the  very  least  you  will  give  me.  You  would 
find  me  a  very  safe  person.  A  man's  days  of 
friendship  begin  when  his  days  of  love  are 
over ;  and  I,"  he  went  on,  knowing  that  he 
was  making  love  all  the  time,  "am  in  my 
days  of  friendship." 

"  You  and  I  then,  perhaps,  are  exceptions 
to  the  general  rule.  There  are  exceptions.  I 
can  at  least  say  this  much  for  myself,  that  I 
am  far  more  likely  to  be  a  friend  than  to 
have  one." 

She   said  this  with  a  curious  unconscious 


88  A  Romance  of 

bitterness  that   perplexed  and  startled  Ver- 
non. 

"You  must  let  me  show  you,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  that  you  are  wrong  there." 

She  paused,  and  then  said  abruptly,  "  I 
hope  you  didn't  mistake  me.  I  didn't  mean 
that  I  thought  you  would  fall  in  love  with 
me.  Perhaps  you  are  just  as  safe  from  this 
sort  of  thing  as  I  am." 

"You  are  very  young,"  said  Vernon,  "to 
be  talking  in  that  way." 

"  Youth  and  age,"  she  said,  "  should  not 
be  counted  by  years.  No  man  dying  a  living 
death  in  a  nunnery  could  be  more  shut  out 
from  all  danger  of  love  than  I  am — from 
all  life,  my  friend,  and  from  all  fear  of  it." 

After  this  there  was  silence  till  Lady  Wal- 
ters woke  up,  and  Vernon  soon  after  was  say- 
ing adieu  to  his  friends  on  their  own  door- 
step. 

But  the  night  was  not  yet  done  for  him. 
He  had  refused  to  enter ;  he  was  anxious  to 
be  by  himself  again ;  and  having  sent  his 
carriage  away,  he  walked  back  through  the 
gardens.  In  his  own  lamp-lit  villa  a  delicate 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  89 

supper  was  prepared  for  him,  but  he  did 
nothing  more  than  taste  it,  and  he  went  out 
again  into  the  mellow  night  air.  He  was  like 
a  man  who  had  eaten  a  sort  of  moral  opium, 
and  his  breast  was  full  of  a  sweet  fantastic 
tumult.  There  was  a  magical  resurrection 
in  him  of  the  wild  romance  of  boyhood. 
He  leaned  his  elbow  on  a  pale,  glistening 
balustrade,  and  looked  out  over  the  sea. 
"  Sea  of  Romance,"  his  unaltered  thoughts 
began  in  him,  "  once  again  you  have  your 
old  charm  for  me.  Inarticulate  whispers  of 
ambition,  of  passion,  and  of  music  float  up 
to  me  from  your  enchanted  surface.  Sea  of 
southern  moon  and  of  Italian  twilights,  what 
eyes  of  famous  lovers  have  looked  out  on 
you !  The  most  musical  of  the  world's  love- 
songs  have  mixed  over  you  with  the  vesper 
breezes  !  Pale,  restless  waves,  rocking  under 
the  stars  of  midnight,  the  limbs  of  the  mer- 
maids know  you  :  the  nautilus  floats  upon 
your  bosom  !  Yes,  and  in  me,  too,  up  from 
the  depths  of  my  being,  thoughts  and  longings 
are  rising  that  sing  like  mermaids.  What  do 
they  sing  of?  Is  it  of  her  eyes  and  lips? 


90  A  Romance  of 

Are  they  singing  to  her  spirit  that  it  may 
stoop  down  to  mine  ? "  He  turned  back  to 
his  garden.  That,  too,  was  enchanted.  Were 
Oberon  and  Titania  holding  revel  there? 
Bush  and  blossom  seemed  populous  with 
crowds  of  airy  presences.  Every  passion, 
every  pleasure  of  his  life,  became  a  separate 
fairy,  with  its  body  some  faint  perfume,  and 
its  dwelling-place  some  half-closed  flower-bell. 
In  luxurious  agitation  he  again  returned  to 
his  sea-view.  Far  away  over  the  waters  the 
lights  of  Nice  were  glittering  fair  and  dis- 
tant, like  a  braid  of  golden  stars.  On  a  lit- 
tle headland  near  him,  covered  with  myrtles, 
another  light  twinkled — solitary,  dim,  and  only 
just  distinguishable.  It  came  from  a  shrine 
of  the  Virgin,  and  his  wandering  gaze  fixed 
on  it.  Suddenly  into  his  dream-world  there 
floated  scent  of  incense,  glimmering  altars, 
and  sounds  of  imploring  music.  "Star  of  the 
sea,"  he  murmured,  "  star  of  the  morning, 
refuge  of  sinners,  pray  for  me ! " 

Going  indoors,  he  sat  down  to  his  desk 
and  wrote  his  diary  of  the  day's  proceedings. 
Miss  Walters  filled  up  a  large  space  in  it,  and 


The  Nineteenth   Lcntury. 


or 


a  fragment  of  what  he  said  about  her  has  been 
already  quoted  :  but  so  hard  is  it  to  be  honest 
to  even  a  piece  of  paper,  that  he  made  no 
mention  whatever  of  his  qualms  of  conscience 
or  own  self-accusations. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

TTTHEN  he  woke  next  morning  a  thorough 
surprise  awaited  him.  A  fresh  deli- 
cious air  stole  through  the  open  window,  and 
fanned  his  cheek  delicately  as  he  lay  thinking. 
He  was  enjoying  the  memory  of  his  last 
night's  adventure,  which  seemed  to  promise 
him  a  new  life  in  his  solitude,  when  his  eye 
caught  something  which  showed  him  he  had 
overslept  himself.  This  was  a  pile  of  letters 
on  a  table  by  his  bedside  ;  and  on  top  of  the 
pile  was  one  in  the  handwriting  of  Campbell. 
What  was  his  astonishment  when  he  found 
that  it  was  dated  "  Cannes  !  " 

"  My  dear  Vernon,"  ran  the  letter,  "  when 
you  see  where  I  am,  you  will  of  course  set 
about  being  angry  with  me  ;  and  at  first  sight 
no  doubt  I  seem  to  deserve  that  you  should 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  93 

be.  A  month  ago,  when  you  begged  me  to 
come  abroad  and  to  take  a  villa  with  you,  I 
refused  you  steadily,  once  or  twice  a  little 
brusquely  ;  and  this  with  no  better  excuse 
than  that  very  poor  one — my  feelings.  I 
said  I  did  not  feel  up  to  it,  and  upon  my 
word  that  was  true,  Vernon — bitterly,  deeply 
true.  I  had  no  heart  to  travel,  and  though 
you  may  smile  when  I  say  so,  the  wretched- 
ness I  then  suffered  was  crushing  me.  But  I 
am  better  now ;  life  has  been  going  a  little 
more  kindly  with  me.  I  can  enjoy  my  din- 
ner again  sometimes ;  I  can  laugh  at  a  joke 
sometimes.  My  pleasure  in  my  books  and 
pictures  is  coming  back  to  me ;  and  now  it 
has  actually  happened  that  I  have  come 
abroad  as  my  last  chance  of  happiness.  Here 
I  am,  doing  the  very  thing  by  myself  that  I 
refused  so  churlishly  to  do  with  you.  But 
I  am  coming  over  directly  to  see  you,  and 
make  my  peace  with  you ;  and  you  will  per- 
haps put  me  up  for  a  night.  You  will  forgive 
me,  I  think,  when  I  tell  you  all  my  story." 

Vernon  was  easily  moved,  with  the  bright- 
est animal  spirits  ;   nor  did  such  sentiment  as 


94  -A  Romance  of 

that  of  the  night  previous  at  all  tend  to  inter- 
fere with  them.  Campbell's  letter  was  like  a 
burst  of  sunlight  to  him,  and  he  smiled  and 
whistled  in  his  bath  like  any  happy  school- 
boy. He  immediately  telegraphed,  "  Come 
at  once.  I  and  my  carriage  shall  fetch  you 
at  two  o'clock."  He  ordered  his  breakfast  in 
the  open  air,  in  his  favorite  spot  under  the 
myrtles ;  and  as  he  sat  there,  with  the  liquid 
morning  round  him,  food,  he  thought,  had 
never  tasted  so  well,  nor  nature  looked  so 
beautiful.  The  friend  he  was  thinking  of 
was  a  very  different  man  from  himself.  What 
had  at  first  attracted  the  two  was  a  certain 
delicate  dilettanteism,  and  an  indifference  to 
the  games  and  sports  by  which  so  many  men's 
leisure  is  occupied.  But  deeper  down  in 
their  character  this  likeness  ended.  Whereas 
Vernon  was  restless  and  loved  the  world, 
Campbell  was  shy  and  restful  and  inclined  to 
solitude  ;  and  whereas  Vernon  had  played 
with  his  affections,  Campbell  had  kept  his 
laid  up  in  a  napkin.  There  are  passions, 
however,  that  lie  near  affection,  although 
they  are  always  ready  to  ruin  it ;  and  to  these, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  95 

it  is  true,  he  had  yielded  with  a  quite  suffi- 
cient openness.  He  had  even  treated  the 
questions  involved  in  them  with  a  certain 
ruthless  humor,  which  was  as  coarse  as  that 
of  Rabelais,  and  had  in  part  been  borrowed 
from  it.  But  there  had  been  a  flavor  of  in- 
nocence even  about  his  vices.  They  had 
never  approached  his  heart  near  enough  to 
corrupt  it ;  and  now  that  at  last  it  was 
really  touched  and  troubled,  he  had  told  the 
fact  to  his  friend  with  a  simplicity  almost 
childish. 

This  frankness  and  depth  of  feeling  had 
been  something  of  a  riddle  to  Vernon.  He 
had  been  not  long  quit  of  his  own  engage- 
ment when  he  heard  of  Campbell's  love  af- 
fair ;  and  he  had  pitied  his  friend  sincerely. 
He  looked  on  him  as  caught  in  a  trap  he 
had  himself  just  escaped  from  :  and  when  he 
found  that  Campbell  the  lover  interfered  with 
Campbell  the  friend,  the  above  feeling  was 
intensified.  But  now  as  he  sat  at  breakfast, 
with  a  volume  of  Horace  beside  him,  he  was 
happy  in  the  thought  that  the  lover's  days 
were  waning,  and  that  the  friend  would  be 


96  A  Romance  of 

again  restored  to  him.  He  had  just  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  with  a  lazy  smile  was  watching 
the  silvery-blue  smoke-wreaths  as  they  rose 
and  melted  over  him  into  the  green  myrtle 
shadows,  when  he  heard  on  the  gravel  the 
sound  of  a  firm  footstep,  and  looking  up,  he 
saw  Alic  Campbell  before  him. 

Nothing  human  could  be  brighter  than  a 
pleased  greeting  of  Vernon's  ;  it  had  all  the 
quick  radiance  of  a  pool  in  morning  sunlight : 
and  he  felt  as  happy  at  this  moment  with  his 
old  friend  as  a  child  is  with  a  new  plaything. 
Campbell,  too,  for  his  part  was  glowing  with 
pleased  excitement,  though  there  was  a  pa- 
thetic tone  in  his  voice,  if  Vernon  had  cared 
to  note  it.  Campbell  was,  however,  ex- 
tremely hungry  ;  he  was  by  no  means  indif- 
ferent to  the  minor  pleasures  of  the  table,  and 
Vernon's  breakfast  was  excellent.  Food  had 
the  best  effect  on  the  lately  dejected  lover; 
his  laugh  came  gayly,  his  eye  gleamed  with 
humor.  There  is  many  a  heartache  that  can 
be  made  to  cease  on  occasion  by  the  modest 
soothings  of  a  good  p&te-de-foie-gras. 

"  Here,"  cried  Vernon  at  last,   "  are   two 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  97 

disciples   of    Horace  ;   we   have   tried    many 
philosophies,  but  we  return  to  this  at  last. 

"  '  Hue  vina  et  unguenta  et  nimium  breves 
Floras  amoenae  ferrejube  rosas, 
Dum  res  et  astas  et  Sororum 
Fila  trium  patiuntur  atra.'" 

Campbell  smiled,  and  asked  for  some  more 
Burgundy. 

"  My  dear  Alic,"  Vernon  went  on  presently, 
"  I  wrote  you  a  letter  only  yesterday,  full  of 
advice  and  prophecy :  and  now,  strange  to 
say,  before  you  have  got  either,  you  have 
taken  the  one,  and  fulfilled  the  other.  I  de- 
scribed to  you,  too,  all  the  charms  of  this 
world  of  mine  ;  but  now,  look  about  you,  and 
enjoy  it  with  your  own  eyes." 

Campbell  looked  about  him  in  silent,  but 
with  evident  admiration.  He  had  been  a 
considerable  traveller,  and  his  eyes  had 
known  the  world's  fairest  and  most  famous 
prospects  ;  but  he  admitted  frankly  that  till 
now  he  had  never  seen  such  a  paradise. 
Vernon  was  delighted;  and  filling  a  glass 
with  wine,  "It  will  be  a  little  island  in  our 

7 


98  A  Romance  of 

lives,"  he  said,  "the  enchanted  time  we  wilt 
spend  here.  We  have  both  had  our  troubles 
it  is  true,  but,  after  all,  we  are  still  young;  and 
it  seems  to  me  on  a  day  like  this  as  if  life 
could  have  no  sorrow  except  the  inability 
to  enjoy  intensely  enough.  The  mountains, 
Alic — look  between  those  two  palm  trees — 
and  see  how  the  misty  amethyst  pales  and 
darkens  on  them  !  See  the  astounding  blue 
above  us  against  the  green  of  the  stone-pine ! 
See  how  the  living  azure  is  cut  by  the  yellow 
mimosa- blossom  !  The  beauty  of  all  this 
goes  through  and  through  me  like  some  notes 
of  a  violoncello.  It  is  a  cry,  like  certain  dance 
music,  after  some  consummation  of  pleasure 
unknown  to  us.  You  can  kiss,  you  can  em- 
brace a  woman ;  and  she  can  love  you  back 
again.  But  nature — you  can't  kiss  the  sea ; 
you  can't  embrace  the  mountains.  If  one 
could  only  see  God,  and  break  one's  heart  in 
praising  him,  that  perhaps  might  ease  one." 

A  servant  here  made  a  moment's  inter- 
ruption, carrying  Campbell's  only  luggage — a 
hand-bag — and  asking  to  know  if  it  should  be 
taken  upstairs  to  a  bedroom.  "  Of  course," 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  99 

said  Vernon  ;  and  then  turning  to  Campbell, 
"  My  dear  Alic,"  he  went  on,  "  it  is  indeed  a 
delight  to  think  you  are  really  here.  It  is  a 
pleasure  beyond  hope.  But  tell  me — is  that 
little  bag  all  you  have  brought  over  with  you  ? 
You  couldn't  travel  with  so  little  luggage  if 
you  were  married." 

"I  admit,"  said  Campbell,  smiling,  "that 
freedom  has  its  advantages.  One  would  lose 
a  great  deal  in  losing  it." 

"  One  would  lose,"  said  Vernon,  "  all  that 
makes  life  bearable,  as  you  would  soon  have 
felt  had  your  affairs  gone  otherwise.  But 
about  the  rest  of  your  luggage,  if  there's  not 
a  very  great  deal  of  it,  we  might  drive  over 
to  Cannes,  and  bring  it  all  back  in  the  car- 
riage." 

"  My  dear  Vernon,"  said  Campbell,  "  I  have 
got  all  I  want  for  the  night ;  and  I  must  be 
returning  to  Cannes  to-morrow.  Don't  let  us 
waste  our  one  day  in  driving." 

"  Our  one  day ! "  exclaimed  Vernon.  "  God 
bless  my  soul,  what  do  you  mean  by  one  day? 
Why,  you  are  going  to  stop  here  at  least  three 
weeks  with  me." 


I  oo  A  Romance  of 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Campbell,  very 
slowly,  "God  knows  I  should  like  to  stay  with 
you  ;  but  it  is  not  to  be."  And  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  Vernon  with  a  wistful,  serious  ten- 
derness— it  might  almost  be  called  solemnity. 
It  was  quite  plain  that  he  was  resolute. 

This  to  Vernon  was  like  a  thunderbolt  out 
of  a  clear  sky.  He  was  at  once  startled,  be- 
wildered, and  disappointed. 

"  Not  stay  with  me ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why, 
what  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Alic  ?  Even  if 
you  are  still  a  little  melancholy,  as  I  can  well 
believe  you  are,  you  will  be  surely  far  better 
here  than  moping  about  in  holes  and  cor- 
ners by  yourself.  Why  can't  you  stay  ? — tell 
me?" 

When  Campbell  answered,  his  voice  had 
almost  sunk  to  a  whisper,  and  he  looked  at 
Vernon  with  eyes  that  begged  for  sympathy. 
"  Because,"  he  said,  "  I  have  to  go  on  to  San 
Remo.  I  have  to  be  there  to-morrow.  Ver- 
non, my — my  friend  is  there.  This  is  the 
reason  why  I  have  come  abroad.  I  may  see 
her  to-morrow  evening ;  I  think,  at  farthest, 
the  morning  after :  and  at  one  time  or  the 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  101 

other  I  shall  receive  my  life  or  death  at  her 
hands." 

A  sudden  unwelcome  light  at  last  broke  in 
upon  Vernon.  "Her — her  ! "  he  said.  "  Why, 
what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  It 
surely  can't  be  true  that  I  have  taken  your 
letter  wrongly  ?  I  thought  when  you  told 
me  your  case  was  mending,  that  you  simply 
meant  that  you  had  fallen  out  of  love  again, 
and  that  you  saw  that  the  marriage  state  was 
not  a  thing  worth  sighing  over." 

Campbell  eyed  Vernon  for  a  moment  or 
two  with  a  curious,  sad  amusement.  "  You're 
an  odd  creature,"  he  at  last  said,  smiling. 
"  You  know  something  of  the  world  ;  at  least 
you  have  seen  many  men  and  women  :  and 
do  you  think  that  a  man  who  has  really  loved 
a  woman  can  cast  his  love  to  the  winds  in  the 
course  of  a  single  fortnight?  What  a  strange 
notion  you  must  have  of  the  nature  of  human 
affection ! " 

Vernon,  who  had  not  only  conceived  such  a 
thing  quite  possible,  but  who  had  in  this  case 
actually  taken  it  for  granted,  received  a  sud- 
den check  from  those  grave  words  of  his  friend. 


IO2  A  Romance  of 

He  was  not  embarrassed  by  what  he  had  said 
himself — he  knew  Campbell  far  too  well  for 
that ;  but  he  felt  that  in  Campbell's  eye  he 
had  betrayed  a  singular  ignorance ;  and  the 
first  thing  that  struck  him  was  the  absurdity 
of  his  own  situation.  A  look  came  into  his 
eyes  that  fully  confessed  his  fault ;  but  it  was 
the  gleam  of  humor  rather  than  a  tear  of  con- 
trition ;  and  his  expression  was  not  unlike 
that  of  a  naughty  child's,  who  has  been  caught 
for  the  fifth  time  committing  some  minor  mis- 
chief. Campbell  understood  the  expression 
perfectly;  but  it  neither  pained  nor  chilled  him. 

"I  don'txmind  your  laughing,"  he  said. 
"  True  feeling  can  always  stand  being  laughed 
at.  Vernon  " — and  here  his  own  voice  sank 
low  again — "  this  love  of  mine  has  lain  down 
with  me  and  risen  up  with  me  for  a  whole 
year.  I  have  become  a  new  man  since  first 
it  took  possession  of  me." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Vernon,  "  and  a  very 
much  unhappier  one." 

"  Yes,"  said  Campbell  simply,  "  it  has  made 
me  very  miserable.  I  was  ill  for  several 
weeks."  His  lips  quivered  a  little,  and  he 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  103 

raised  his  clear  eyes  upwards.  His  look, 
thought  Vernon,  was  like  a  young  saint's  in 
meditation.  Something  seemed  in  his  mind 
which  he  was  a  little  timid  of  uttering ;  but 
at  last  he  again  turned  to  Vernon,  and  said 
it.  "  I  think  all  this  trouble,"  he  said,  "  has 
been  bringing  me  nearer  God." 

Vernon  now  began  to  realize  that  Camp- 
bell was  really  changed.  Was  this  the 
Campbell  who,  but  a  single  twelvemonth 
back,  looked  laughingly  at  the  coarsest  side 
of  passion,  used  God's  name  rarely  except  to 
give  point  to  an  epigram  ?  Vernon  saw  the 
change,  for  he  had  keen  moral  perceptions  ; 
it  oppressed  him,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
respected  it.  Still,  however,  a  faint  hope 
lingered  in  him  that  Campbell  might  not  be 
beyond  repentance.  He  repeated  all  the  ar- 
guments he  had  before  used  in  his  letter,  and 
added  others  of  a  reasonable,  homely,  and 
practical  nature.  "  You  have  often  told  me," 
he  urged,  "  about  your  own  circumstances. 
You  are  a  rich  bachelor ;  you  would  be  a 
poor  husband.  I  have  seen  myself  that  you 
have  always  lived  in  luxury  ;  and  you  have 


IO4  A  Romance  of 

always  travelled  whenever  the  fancy  seized 
you.  Marriage  would  therefore  mean  to 
you,  on  your  own  showing,  the  complete  loss 
of  all  your  personal  liberty.  You  would  be 
fettered  in  every  movement  and  almost  in 
every  thought  of  your  life." 

"  I  knew  well,"  said  Campbell,  "  all  I  should 
have  to  give  up ;  and  I  value  it  as  much,  or 
nearly  as  much,  as  you  do.  I  should  have 
to  give  up  many,  many  luxuries,  which  to  me 
in  my  self-indulgence  have  till  now  seemed 
necessities — mental  necessities  as  well  as 
bodily.  I  should  have  to  think  about  all 
sorts  of  little  expenses,  a  thing  I  hate  doing. 
As  you  say,  my  wings  would  be  clipped  for 
travelling.  I  would  no  longer  drink  the  best 
Burgundy,  or  smoke  the  best  cigars  ;  or  buy 
books  with  fine  engravings  in  them.  I  should 
lose  all  this  ;  but  what  I  should  gain  would 
far — far  outweigh  it.  All  this  is  a  riddle 
to  you,  Vernon  ;  for  you  have  never  known 
affection." 

"You  wouldn't  say  that,  I  can  tell  you," 
replied  Vernon,  "  if  you  had  seen  me  last 
night."  And  he  gave  a  short  account,  in  a 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  105 

tone  of  reserved  banter,  of  what  he  called  his 
adventure  with  Miss  Walters. 

"  Adventure  !  "  repeated  Campbell.  "  Yes 
—that  is  just  what  you  consider  a  love  affair. 
With  you  it  is  a  little  incursion  into  an  en- 
emy's country ;  and  your  aim  is  presently  to 
get  back  safe  again.  But  when  any  man 
loves  truly,  does  he  act  or  think  like  this  ? 
Was  it  an  adventure  for  the  Mater  Dolorosa 
when  she  saw  her  son  die  on  Calvary  ?  " 

His  high-strung  state  of  feeling  betrayed 
itself  in  every  accent ;  and  Vernon  at  last 
realized  that  his  friend  was  beyond  his  argu- 
ments. He  put  his  hand  kindly  on  Camp- 
bell's shoulder,  and  in  a  tone  of  compassion 
that  was  trying  to  rise  to  sympathy,  "  My 
dear,  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  whatever  you 
wish  for  yourself,  I  wish.  I  should  be  very 
glad  for  you  to  be  happy,  even  though  I  lost 
your  old  you  by  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Campbell,  smiling ; 
"  but  as  time  draws  on,  my  hopes  get  very 
shadowy.  I  build  only  on  some  slight  ex- 
pression which  my  friend  let  drop  about  me 
to  a  third  person,  and  it  is  more  than  pos- 


106  A  Romance  of 

sible  that  I  quite  deceive  myself.  I  feel,  in 
going  on  to  San  Remo,  as  if  I  were  going  to 
my  own  execution.  By  this  time  to-morrow 
perhaps  I  shall  be  the  foolishest  creature 
imaginable." 

"And  in  that  case,"  said  Vernon,  "what 
should  you  do  then  ?  You  would  come  back 
to  me,  wouldn't  you,  and  let  me  cheer  you 
up  a  little  ?  " 

Campbell's  whole  expression  altered ;  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  hardened.  "  I  know  ex- 
actly what  I  should  do,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
already  faced  the  alternative.  If  necessary, 
I  shall  go  straight  off  to  Vienna,  and  shall 
find  distraction  in  a  complete  course  of  sen- 
suality. I  am  told  that  for  a  life  of  pleasure 
Vienna  is  the  best  of  capitals." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Vernon  sharply.  "  You 
would  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  I  should,"  replied  Campbell.  "  I  was 
never  in  my  life  more  serious.  I  have  al- 
ready settled  the  exact  route  I  should  travel 
by,  and  the  hotel  I  should  first  put  up  at.  I 
am  a  man  of  strong  animal  passions.  I  can 
easily  make  a  complete  beast  of  myself. 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  107 

Nothing  in  the  world  could  deaden  mental 
pain  like  that." 

"  Damn  it ! "  exclaimed  Vernon,  with  a  sud- 
den angry  energy.  "  For  God's  sake,  Camp- 
bell, do  talk  like  a  rational  being.  It  makes 
me  sick  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  way.  A 
moment  ago  I  had  begun  to  admire  and  to 
envy  you  ;  and  now  you  have  spoilt  all.  Be- 
cause some  woman,  it  chances,  does  not  love 
you,  is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  cease 
to  respect  yourself?  Affection,  you  say, 
raises  the  soul  to  God  ;  and  for  aught  I 
know  it  may  very  possibly  do  so.  But  if 
you  are  crossed  in  love,  does  that  make  God 
valueless  ?  Are  your  views  about  God  de- 
pendent on  a  girl's  views  about  you  ?  If 
your  passion  really  raises  you,  it  cannot  let 
you  plan  debasing  yourself.  If  in  cold  blood 
you  can  thus  plan  debasing  yourself,  then  all 
I  can  say  is,  that  I  don't  think  much  of  your 
passion." 

"  You  would  not  be  so  hard,  Vernon,"  said 
Campbell  meekly,  "  if  you  had  ever  felt  as  I 
feel.  What  a  lover  plans  is  never  in  cold 
blood.  Half  the  vice  in  the  world  is  caused 


jo8  A  Romantt  #J 

less  by  vice  than  by  sorrow.  However,"  he 
went  on,  his  tone  again  softening,  "  I  didn't 
screen  her  to  croak  my  woes  to  you.  Let  us 
think  about  other  things,  and  let  us  explore 
your  paradise." 


The  Ninetes.nth  Century.  jog 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"I  7ERNON  was  charmed  to  escape  to  more 
*  indifferent  subjects,  and  by  a  quick 
reaction  Campbell  became  cheerful.  The 
friends  found  plenty  of  small  things  to  amuse 
and  interest  them.  They  went  over  the  villa ; 
they  examined  books  and  etchings ;  they 
scrambled  about  over  rocks ;  they  walked 
through  olive -groves  ;  they  climbed  up  a 
wooded  hill,  and  examined  a  quaint  old 
chapel.  The  chapel  suggested  a  sudden 
thought  to  Vernon.  "Come,"  he  said,  "and 
let  us  look  up  Stanley."  The  news  that 
Stanley  was  in  the  neighborhood  was  a  fresh 
distraction  for  Campbell,  and  for  the  time 
seemed  quite  to  banish  the  unfortunate 
thoughts  that  saddened  him.  Stanley  was 
living  at  a  small,  somewhat  rough  pension, 


j  io  A  Romance  of 

that  was  not  far  from  Vernon's  villa.  They 
learnt  that  he  was  at  home  ;  and  a  pert  little 
white-capped  maid  left  them  to  announce 
themselves.  They  found  him  upstairs,  in  a 
small,  bare  sitting-room,  bending  over  a  table 
writing.  His  face  was  fair  and  delicate  ;  but 
it  seemed  to  have  now  contracted  a  slightly 
stern  expression,  and  suggested  at  once 
thought  and  physical  suffering.  When,  how- 
ever, he  saw  who  were  his  visitors,  his  eyes 
lit  up  with  a  smile  of  such  frank  and  surprised 
pleasure,  that  for  a  moment  the  sternness 
vanished  ;  and  Vernon  presently,  though  not 
without  some  misgiving,  asked  him  if  he 
would  come  to  dinner.  To  his  surprise  Stan- 
ley accepted  gladly ;  but  added,  "  If  I  come 
this  evening,  I  must  send  you  away  now ;  for  I 
have  certain  work  which  I  must  finish  to-day." 

"  Poor  Stanley  !  "  said  Vernon,  as  he  and 
Campbell  walked  away  together.  "How  de- 
lighted he  was  to  see  you,  Alic  ;  and  I  don't 
think  he  much  minded  seeing  me." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Campbell,  "  I 
thought  he  seemed  particularly  pleased  at  it 
Why  should  you  think  he  minded  it?" 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  in 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I  always  vaguely  fancy, 
if  I  haven't  wanted  to  see  a  man,  that  he  hasn't 
wanted  to  see  me.  Besides,  I  haven't  the  least 
doubt  that  he  thinks  me  rather  a  brute." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that's  the  first  time 
you've  ever  been  to  call  on  him  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  said  Vernon.  "  But  I 
shall  go  again  now.  Do  you  know,  it  almost 
made  me  cry  to  see  the  pleased  way  in  which 
he  smiled  at  us.  I  am  always  touched  when 
a  man  who  looks  stern  is  really  made  glad*by 
a  trifle.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  to  do 
this  moment.  I  want  to  order  some  specially 
nice  things  for  dinner  this  evening ;  and  I 
think,  in  spite  of  everything,  we  shall  have  a 
very  nice  little  symposium." 

Nor  when  dinner  came  was  this  anticipation 
falsified.  The  unlooked-for  reunion  of  the 
three  old  friends  produced  in  each  of  them 
a  genial  glow  of  spirits.  Stanley,  whatever 
might  be  his  private  habits,  betrayed  at  Ver- 
non's  table  no  trace  of  asceticism.  He  was 
naturally  a  moderate  man  ;  but  to-night,  at 
least,  he  ate  and  drank  what  he  wanted,  and 
he  remarked  in  a  quiet  natural  way  that  the 


112  A  Romance  of 

champagne  was  good.  Talk  flowed  freely 
about  the  early  days  at  Oxford  ;  his  memory 
lit  up  all  of  them  with  the  reflected  sunshine 
of  youth.  The  only  one  whose  spirits  were 
at  all  forced  or  uncertain  was  Vernon  himself. 
The  thought  that  Campbell  was  resolved  not 
to  stay  with  him  vexed  him  with  a  suppressed 
persistency;  and  with  this  thought  another 
began  to  mix  itself — the  thought  of  Miss 
Walters,  and  the  strange  charm  of  her  pres- 
ence. All  this  would  for  moments  make  him 
absent.  But  wine  came  to  his  aid  whenever 
his  will  failed  him,  and  drove  his  straying  wits 
back  to  his  guests,  and  table. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  three  adjourned 
to  the  library,  and  Stanley  and  Campbell  fell 
discussing  one  of  their  college  tutors.  This 
was  a  man  of  great  beauty  of  character,  who, 
though  somewhat  rough  externally,  had  had 
upon  all  his  pupils  the  most  powerful  moral 
influence ;  and  the  mention  of  him  led  the 
talking  to  other  serious  matters.  Vernon  at 
the  beginning  had  occasionally  put  in  a  word 
or  two  :  but  he  had  relapsed  gradually  into 
a  mere  listener — a  listener  at  first  attentive, 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  113 

then  a  trifle  drowsy,  till  at  length,  by  gentle 
stages,  he  had  sunk  off  into  sleep. 

The  tone  of  the  others  presently  dropped 
lower. 

"  Look  ! "  said  Stanley,  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  Vernon,  "  what  a  curious  expression  in 
repose  he  has.  He  is  the  most  careworn 
sleeper  I  ever  saw,  and  yet  of  all  waking  men 
he  is  the  most  careless-looking.  Do  you 
think  he  is  happy  ?  " 

"  He  has  his  troubles,"  said  Campbell,  "no 
doubt,  like  the  rest  of  us.  To  make  him 
happy,  he  wants  one  or  two  things — he 
should  have  less  of  a  heart,  or  more  of  one. 
Somebody,  I  remember,  once  said  of  him 
bitterly,  that  he  got  more  love  from  his 
slightest  friend  than  he  ever  gave  to  his 
greatest.  Perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in 
that  :  and  yet  though  the  man  who  said  it 
is  one  of  the  most  stanch  of  creatures,  I 
could  depend  on  Vernon  in  some  ways  more 
surely  than  on  him.  Were  there  any  urgent 
need,  I  could  ask  Vernon  to  take  any  trouble 
for  me.  He  would  hate  the  trouble,  yet  all 

the   same    he  would  take  it ;  and  he  would 
8 


ii4  A  Romance  of 

serve  you  better,  when  the  service  was  only 
a  nuisance  to  him,  than  many  men  would 
that  might  feel  it  a  genuine  pleasure." 

"  That  just  fits  in,"  said  Stanley,  "  with 
what  I  heard  the  other  day  about  him,  from 
an  old  woman  here,  whose  cottage  I  some- 
times visit.  This  woman  had  a  poor  lame 
child,  who  was  taken  out  in  a  mule-cart,  with 
some  of  its  brothers  and  sisters.  The  cart 
broke  down,  and  could  not  be  brought  home 
again  ;  and  the  little  cripple  was  naturally  in 
great  distress.  Vernon  that  moment  chanced 
to  be  passing  by.  He  at  once  took  it  up  and 
carried  it  two  miles,  to  its  home,  and  the  day 
after  ordered  a  boot  with  steel  supports  for 
it,  which  the  surgeons  say  will  get  it  the  use 
of  its  legs  again.  I  happened  to  meet  him 
just  after  he  had  done  carrying  it,  and  he 
said,  '  Don't  shake  hands  with  me  ;  I've  been 
touching  a  beastly  child  !' ' 

"Have  you  ever  looked  at  his  books?" 
asked  Campbell  presently,  as  he  glanced 
round  him. 

"No,  I  have  never  been  in  this  room  be- 
fore. He  asked  me  to  breakfast  once,  but  I 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  115 

was  unable  to  come,  and  I  gathered  by  his 
manner  that  he  thought  he  had  done  his  duty 
by  me." 

"  His  library,"  said  Campbell,  "  made  me 
smile  rather.  A  good  half  of  it  consists  of 
dry  books  on  theology.  Look  at  his  writing- 
table,"  he  went  on.  "  Do  you  see  those  three 
books  there — one  on  top  of  the  other  ?  It  is 
a  curious  mixture." 

The  books  were  Horace,  Serpete's  "  Spir- 
itual Combat,"  and  "  Lord  Chesterfield's 
Letters." 

"  I  remember  that  at  Oxford,"  said  Stan- 
ley, "  he  would  continually  talk  of  theology  ; 
but  it  was  never  with  any  reverence,  though 
sometimes  with  thought  and  knowledge." 

"  Yes ;  religion  with  him,"  said  Campbell, 
"  is  merely  an  intellectual  question — a  tire- 
some riddle,  that  piques  him  because  he  can't 
answer  it." 

The  conversation  continued  for  some  time 
longer,  whilst  the  subject  of  it  still  slept 
heavily.  At  last,  Stanley,  who  kept  early 
hours,  declared  that  he  ought  to  go.  "  But 
I  won't  wake  Vernon,"  he  said.  "  Poor  fel- 


1 1 6  A  Romance  of 

low,  he  looks  tired  enough.  You  shall  say 
good-night  for  me  ;  and  I  hope,  Campbell, 
that  I  may  soon  see  you  again." 

"  I  am  going  to-morrow,"  said  Campbell. 
"  I  am  obliged  to  go  ;  but  if  you  would  be 
in,  I  might  come  and  see  you  in  the  morning. 
I  too  have  my  troubles  ;  and  I  am  afraid  I 
have  been  boring  Vernon  with  them." 

By  and  by  Vernon  looked  up  with  a  start, 
and  asked  where  was  Stanley.  "  What  a 
brute  I  must  have  seemed  to  him,"  he  said, 
when  he  knew  that  his  guest  was  gone.  "  I 
ask  a  fellow  to  dine  with  me  ;  then  I  sleep 
like  a  pig  all  through  the  evening  ;  and  now, 
for  my  pains,  I  wake  up  with  a  splitting 
headache.  Let  us  go  out — shall  we  ? — and 
take  a  turn  in  the  garden." 

Vernon  was  somewhat  silent  as  they  went 
through  the  moonlit  walks.  At  last  he  said 
abruptly,  "  What  made  me  sleepy  to-night 
was  my  having  taken  too  much  wine.  I 
did  it  to  keep  my  spirits  up,  for  I  was 
gloomy  about  your  going.  Of  course  Stan- 
ley wouldn't  say  anything ;  but  I  know  quite 
well  he  must  have  thought  me  a  beast." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  117 

"  That,"  said  Campbell,  "  I  am  quite  sure 
he  did  not,  for  just  before  he  went  he  was 
warmly  praising  you.  He  was  telling  me  of 
your  kindness  to  some  little  crippled  girl." 

"My  kindness  to  what ?"  exclaimed  Ver- 
non.  "  Oh,  I  know  what  he  must  be  think- 
ing of.  Poor  little  dirty  brat — she  literally 
reeked  of  garlic  !  How  the  devil  did  Stanley 
hear  about  that?  But  now  tell  me,  Alic," 
he  went  on,  "  must  you  really  go  to-morrow  ? 
Is  it  all  quite  decided  ?  Can't  you  stay  even 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  let  me  show  you  my 
beautiful  neighbor?" 

Campbell  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Vernon 
— no,"  he  said. 

"  But  she  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Vernon, 
"  and  dresses  exquisitely,  and  has  all  kinds  of 
high-minded  views  about  the  hollowness  of 
fashion,  and  about  genuine  friendship,  and 
falling  in  love,  and  so  on.  I  would  let  you 
flirt  with  her,  if  you  wanted  to." 

"You  forget,"  said  Campbell,  "that  I  am 
leading  a  consecrated  life." 

"  Well,  she  won't  unconsecrate  you.  She 
has  <^one  with  love,  she  tells  me  :  though  I'm 


n8  A  Romance  of 

not  sure  myself  if  I  quite  believe  her.  Is  it 
Sterne — or  who  is  it  ? — who  says,  '  Talking 
of  love  is  making  it  ?  " 

"  If  she  told  you  as  much  as  that  the  first 
time  you  spoke  to  her,  you  must  have  got  on 
pretty  far,  I  think." 

"  Ah,"  said  Vernon  smiling,  "  those  events 
are  like  dreams.  They  are  just  as  independent 
of  the  human  limits  of  time.  When  I  try  to 
dissuade  you  from  love,  it  is  not  from  earlier 
stages  of  it.  The  blossom  of  the  tree  is  as 
beautiful  as  an  olive  blossom,  though  the  fruit 
is  as  tasteless  as  an  acorn.  As  for  the  earlier 
stages  of  love-making,  there  is  nothing  in  life, 
so  far  as  I  know,  so  magical.  There  is  hardly 
a  single  aspiration,  a  single  sensation,  a  single 
faculty,  that  is  not  touched  by  them  with 
orchestral  music.  My  dear  Alic,  there  is  the 
splendid  prelude.  But  what  follows  ?  Not 
an  oration,  but  a  sermon." 

Campbell  was  silent,  and  Vernon  began 
again. 

"  I  think  my  true  metier"  he  said,  "would  be 
that  of  wooer-in-ordinary  to  my  male  friends. 
Whenever  any  one  of  them  had  set  his  heart 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  119 

on  a  lady,  it  should  be  my  business  to  awake 
her  love  and  tenderness  ;  to  teach  her  lips  to 
kiss,  her  heart  to  move  with  a  sigh  or  two, 
and  her  eyes  to  look  expressively.  I  would 
then,  without  any  peculation,  transfer  all  the 
feelings  I  had  roused  to  my  client.  Would 
you  on  these  terms  have  made  me  your  agent  ? 
You  may  be  sure  when  the  time  came  I  should 
have  no  temptation  to  cheat  you." 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  ;  but  Campbell 
answered  in  a  tone  of  unexpected  seriousness. 

"  My  dear  Vernon,"  he  said,  "  what  a 
thoroughly  immoral  man  you  are  !  " 

"  Immoral ! " 

"  Yes,  you  really  are.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
joking.  You  are  one  of  the  most  immoral 
men  I  ever  knew.  What  you  said  just  now 
is  only  another  proof  of  it." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  was 
only  chaffing  you." 

"  Yes,  but  the  man  in  jest  is  the  key  to  the 
man  in  earnest.  Besides,  I  didn't  judge  you 
merely  by  what  you  said  just  now.  I  have 
known  you  for  ten  years,  and  have  been  your 
friend  ever  since  I  knew  you.  I  was  looking 


I2O  A  Romance  of 

only  this  morning  at  one  of  your  early  photo- 
graphs, and  since  that  was  taken  I  can  see 
how  your  face  has  changed.  In  some  ways 
you  have  hardly  aged  at  all ;  you  still  look 
very,  very  young.  But  youth  is  sometimes 
prolonged  by  a  sacrifice  of  all  that  is  best  in 
it ;  and  ah,  Vernon,  there  is  one  look  gone 
from  your  face  which  that  photograph  re- 
minded me  was  once  there.  And  shall  I  tell 
you  what  has  destroyed  it  ?  It  is  what  I  call 
your  immorality.  It  is  this  perpetual  trifling 
with  your  highest  and  finest  feelings.  That 
the  feelings  are  high  and  fine  I  don't  deny  for 
a  moment.  It  is  in  that  that  the  badness  lies. 
You  are  making  a  play-ground  of  what  should 
be  your  holy  of  holies.  You  may  not  be  in- 
dulging your  grosser  appetites  ;  but  you  are 
making  yourself  incapable  for  ever  of  any 
earnest  affection  ;  and  this  is  the  surest  way 
in  which  you  can  quench  the  spirit.  It  is  not 
eclipsing  the  light,  as  lust  does  ;  it  is  putting 
the  light  out.  Pure  affection  can  extinguish 
lust ;  but  if  you  extinguish  pure  affection, 
what  then  ?  Would  a  man  who  has  done  that 
ever  be  fit  for  heaven,  even  though  in  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  121 

world's  sense  of  the  word  he  were  as  moral 
as  any  anchorite  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  Campbell's  manner 
which,  despite  his  plain  speaking,  made  Ver- 
non  listen  without  anger  or  impatience.  He 
seemed  a  little  annoyed,  however,  and  anxious 
to  change  the  subject. 

"  Heaven  ! "  he  said  wearily  ;  "and  do  you, 
Campbell,  really  believe  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  More  than  you  do,"  said  Campbell,  with 
the  same  gentleness.  "  I  am  not  wanting  to 
preach  to  you.  I  am  only  trying,  like  a  friend 
that  loves  you,  to  show  you  the  reason  of 
your  being  so  ill  at  ease.  This  is  a  delicate 
thing  to  do,  and  even  a  friend  can  do  it  only 
when  he  is  himself  feeling  deeply.  A  year 
ago  I  could  never  have  spoken  like  this  to 
you.  Perhaps  six  weeks  hence  I  shall  be 
again  enabled  to  do  it." 

"  I  know  you  mean  kindly,"  said  Vernon. 
"  But  honestly,  I  didn't  quite  understand  you. 
What  on  earth  makes  you  think  that  I  am  ill 
at  ease  ?  " 

"You  are,  though  you  may  not  acknowledge 
it.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face,  I  can  hear  it  in 


122  A  Romance  of 

your  voice  sometimes.  With  all  your  bright 
spirits,  and  with  all  your  gayety,  you  have 
done  your  nature  a  wrong  which  you  feel  in 
spite  of  yourself.  My  own  sins,  God  knows, 
have  been  many.  It  is  perhaps  because  of 
them  that  all  this  sorrow  has  come  upon  me. 
But  there  is  something  worse,  Vernon,  than 
even  the  garments  spotted  by  the  flesh.  What 
is  commonly  called  immorality  does  indeed 
stain  life  ;  but  your  immorality  conservates  it. 
It  leaves  you  a  husk — a  shell ;  a  tissue  it  may 
be  of  supersensitive  nerves  ;  but  with  no  true 
self  within  to  be  informed  by  them.  You 
have  not  lived  to  that  state  yet,  but  there  are 
moments  when  you  feel  or  fear  the  beginning 
of  it." 

"  I  may  have  causes  for  care,"  said  Vernon, 
"  other  than  you  dream  of ;  perhaps,  indeed, 
of  an  exactly  opposite  nature.  You  tell  me  I 
do  not  believe  in  heaven  ,  and  perhaps  I  don't, 
but  at  least  I  feel  daily  the  want  of  a  belief  in 
it.  My  unhappiness,  if  I  have  any,  arises  not 
from  having  no  woman  to  love,  but  from  hav- 
ing no  God  to  believe  in." 

Campbell  looked  at  Vernon  with  a  friendly 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  123 

incredulity.  "  My  dear  Vernon,"  he  said, 
"you  are  the  most  irreligious  man  I  know. 
The  same  course  of  conduct  that  deadens 
human  love  deadens  divine  love  also ;  nor 
indeed  would  you  play  with  the  first,  if  you 
had  any  real  sense  of  the  second.  I  know 
quite  well  that  you  think  about  religion,  and 
read  about  it :  but  you  know  quite  well  that 
it  is  not  an  active  power  in  your  life.  It  is 
nothing  more  than  an  abstraction.  You  have 
continually  told  me  that  nothing  in  life  ab- 
sorbs you  ;  but  religion,  when  a  reality,  is  all 
an  affair  of  loving." 

"  Not  of  loving  only,  but  of  believing  also. 
You  can't  love  a  being  whose  existence  you 
are  not  sure  of  ;  and  it  is  quite  conceivable — 
I  am  not  speaking  about  myself,  for  that,  after 
all,  is  a  matter  of  little  interest — it  is  quite 
conceivable  that  affection  may  in  many  cases 
be  chilled  by  want  of  belief,  just  as  belief 
may  become  useless  for  want  of  proper  af- 
fection. Love  robbed  of  belief  is  like  a  bird 
whose  nest  has  been  stolen.  It  tries  every 
tree,  but  finds  no  twig  to  rest  upon."  There 
was  a  short  silence  after  this  ;  and  then  pres- 


124  -d  Romance  of 

ently  Vernon  began  again.  "  In  one  point, 
at  least,"  he  said,  with  a  cold  laugh,  "  you  are 
wrong,  Campbell,  in  your  judgment  of  me. 
You  said  that  religion  had  no  effect  on  my 
life.  It  was  a  religious  question  that  caused 
the  breaking  off  of  my  marriage." 

"  If  you  had  been  very  much  in  love,  if 
you  had  been  very  anxious  to  marry,  would 
that  question  have  stood  in  your  way?" 

"  It  would  have  stood  in  my  way,  I  sin- 
cerely hope,  in  any  case.  I  can  think  of  no 
self-indulgence  so  wanton,  so  complete  in  its 
cruelty,  as  bringing  children  into  the  world, 
and  giving  them  no  faith  to  guide  them. 
That  would  indeed  be  making  a  tragic  toy  of 
affection,  to  go  blowing  little  soap-bubbles  of 
conscious  fretful  vanity.  Happy  unconscious 
matter !  The  man  is  worse  than  a  murderer 
who  infuses  it  with  aimless  wretchedness." 

"  And  this,"  said  Campbell,  "  is  the  relig- 
ious man's  view  of  life  !  My  dear  Vernon, 
you  have  much  to  learn  yet" 

Vernon  made  no  reply  to  this.  He  had 
seen  that  Campbell,  in  spite  of  a  friend's 
fondness,  had  but  a  scanty  faith  in  his  con- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  125 

duct  with  regard  to  the  breaking  off  of  his 
marriage ;  and  a  feeling  of  not  quite  un- 
natural anger  had  begun  to  swell  up  in  him. 
But  "  He  means  well,"  he  almost  directly  said 
to  himself,  and  he  forced  the  anger  down. 
Its  only  outer  sign  was  a  few  moments'  cold- 
ness ;  and  when  next  he  spoke,  it  was  once 
more  with  sympathy. 

"  You  have  told  me  much  about  love,"  he 
said,  as  they  moved  back  to  the  villa  ;  "  but 
you  have  told  me  very  little  about  your  own 
love-story.  You  meet  your  goddess  alone, 
she  has  very  simple  tastes,  '  first  she  would 
and  then  she  wouldn't,'  and  she  is  doubtful 
whether  she  will  or  no.  I  knew  this  much, 
but  that  is  all.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  her 
name,  and  a  little  more  about  her  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  Campbell.  "  No — nor 
to-morrow  morning,  I  think.  Had  I  better 
or  surer  hope,  I  would  dwell  on  and  tell  you 
everything.  But  I  can't  now.  I  can't  go 
over  those  secrets  again.  I  would  sooner 
not  even  tell  you  who  she  is,  unless  I  can  tell 
you  some  day  that  she  is  or  will  be  my  wife. 
I  shall  know  that  soon.  Ah  me  1 " 


126  A  Romance. 

"  And  are  you  still  resolved,"  said  Vernon, 
"  that  Vienna  is  your  only  alternative  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Campbell  sighing,  "  I  am 
not  resolved  that  it  shall  be ;  but  I  know  that 
it  is." 

The  conversation  then  turned  to  brandy 
and  seltzer-water,  and  the  two  friends  retired. 


BOOK   II. 


CHAPTER   I. 

/^AMPBELL  next  morning  paid  a  short 
V*'  visit  to  Stanley,  and  in  the  afternoon 
he  was  gone.  Vernon's  last  words  to  him 
were,  "  If  you  are  not  successful,  come  back 
to  me,  and  give  up  Vienna.  You  have  told 
me  pretty  plainly  that  I'm  not  far  off  from  a 
devil  ;  so  if  it's  the  devil  you  want  to  go  to, 
you  may  at  least  choose  one  who  is  fond  of 
you." 

There  was  more  in  his  manner,  perhaps, 
than  he  was  altogether  conscious  of ;  for  this 
last  farewell  of  his  touched  Campbell  and  set 
him  for  some  time  thinking.  As  for  Vernon 
himself,  his  spirits  at  first  sank  low  enough, 
and  his  villa  looked  very  blank  to  him.  But 
he  was  not  a  man  tamely  to  sit  down  with  de- 
jection ;  and  having  mourned  his  friend's  loss 
9  129 


130  A  Romance  of 

for  an  hour  or  so,  his  imagination  suddenly 
wheeled  round  to  Miss  Walters.  The  effect 
was  as  quick  on  him  as  that  of  a  glass  of  ab- 
sinthe. He  would  at  once  hurry  off  and  call 
at  the  Chateau  St.  John ;  and  such  a  thrill 
did  the  prospect  send  through  him,  that  he 
felt  his  present  condition  was  not  without 
its  advantages.  Even  a  friend  like  Campbell 
might  have  been  perhaps  a  little  de  trop  just 
then. 

He  had  rung  the  bell  at  the  Chateau  ;  the 
hall  door  had  been  thrown  open,  and  with  a 
confident  inquiry  he  was  already  on  the  point 
of  entering,  when  the  servant  informed  him 
that  the  ladies  had  left  for  Nice. 

"  Left  !  "  echoed  Vernon  in  astonishment. 

"  They  left  yesterday,  sir,"  said  the  ser- 
vant "  but  they  will  be  back  early  this  even- 
ing, as  I  believe  they  are  expecting  a  gentle- 
man here  to  dine  with  them." 

Vernon  at  once  concluded  that  this  gentle- 
man must  be  himself,  and  he  resolved  to  has- 
ten home  to  inquire  if  no  note  had  arrived 
for  him.  He  was  spared,  however,  this  trou- 
ble by  the  servant  adding,  the  next  moment, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  131 

"  A  gentleman,  I  believe,  sir,  who  is  coming 
from  Monte  Carlo." 

This  simple  announcement  worked  like" 
magic  on  Vernon.  A  sudden  twilight  of 
jealousy  fell  on  his  whole  soul;  and  at  the 
same  instant  the  stars  of  romance  shone  out 
again.  The  expected  guest,  he  felt  convinced, 
could  be  none  other  than  Colonel  Stapleton ; 
and  the  thought  that  the  beautiful  Cynthia 
could  be  touched  by  so  gross  a  rival,  seemed 
to  withdraw  her  to  some  untold  distance. 
But  such  are  the  ways  of  certain  kinds  of 
affection  that  this  fancied  distance  only  in- 
creased his  longing  for  her.  His  impressions 
of  her,  mental  or  sensuous,  became  all  more 
vivid  than  ever,  and  he  was  soon  lost  in  a 
deep,  passionate  reverie.  Her  eyes,  her  lips, 
her  hands,  the  texture  of  her  cheek  and 
throat,  the  feather  in  her  hat,  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  her  gestures — all  these  in  their 
several  ways  touched  him  ;  and  she  dwelt  in 
his  mind  as  some  strange,  delicate  mystery 
that  he  was  resolved  to  make  his  own. 

Having  indulged  to  the  full  in  this  kind  of 
dreaming,  the  thought  of  Campbell  once  more 


132  A  Romance  of 

came  back  to  him.  He  paced  the  same  walks 
that  evening  that  Campbell  had  lately  paced 
with  him ;  and  he  attentively  thought  over 
their  last  night's  conversation,  and  looked 
longingly  in  the  direction  of  the  Chateau  St. 
John.  "Ah  me,"  he  cried,  drawing  a  long 
sigh  ;  "  and  am  I  really  the  brute  that  Camp- 
bell tells  me  I  am?  Am  I  really  heartless 
and  selfish,  and  with  no  health  left  in  me?" 

He  went  indoors  to  his  library,  and  took 
down  a  volume  from  his  book-case  of  Latin 
authors.  He  sat  for  some  time  poring  over 
it  motionless  ;  but  at  last  a  low  voice  broke 
from  him,  and  he  began  thus  translating 
aloud  to  himself  :— 

"  Highest  and  holiest,  mightiest  and  al- 
mightiest,  most  pitiful  and  yet  most  just,  un- 
seen and  yet  ever  near  to  us,  fairest  and  yet 
most  firm,  ever  before  us  and  yet  past  our 
studying  ;  never  new,  never  aging,  yet  renew- 
ing all  things ;  striking  the  proud  with  age, 
and  they  know  it  not :  whose  work  never 
ceases,  whose  quiet  is  never  broken  ;  gath- 
ering, yet  nothing  needing ;  sustaining,  re- 
plenishing, and  protecting;  making,  cherish- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  133 

ing,  and  maturing ;  seeking,  yet  having  all 
things:  Thou  lovest,  and  passion  stirs  Thee 
not ;  Thou  art  jealous,  and  lo,  no  care 
touches  Thee ;  Thou  repentest  Thee,  yet 
Thou  hast  no  contrition  ;  Thou  art  angry, 
and  yet  Thou  abidest  calm ;  Thou  makest 
Thy  works  change,  but  Thy  counsel  endures 
for  ever  ;  Thou  findest  what  Thou  hast  never 
lost,  and  Thou  takest  it  back  home  to  Thee. 
Thou  art  never  in  want,  and  yet  Thou  art 
pleased  with  winning ;  Thou  hast  no  covet- 
ousness,  and  yet  Thou  takest  usury.  Thou 
art  paid  more  than  Thy  due  that  Thou  mayest 
be  made  man's  debtor;  and  who  has  aught 
that  has  not  been  always  Thine  ?  Thou 
payest,  yet  owest  no  man  anything  ;  Thou 
givest  gifts,  and  behold  Thou  losest  nothing. 
And  what,  oh,  what  is  this  that  I  say  con- 
cerning Thee,  my  God,  my  life,  my  holy  and 
sweet  desire  ?  or  what,  when  he  speaks  of 
Thee,  can  be  said  by  any  man  ?  and  yet  woe 
to  him  that  speaks  not,  since  even  the  dumb 
praise  Thee."  * 

The  book  over  which  Vernon  was  bending 

*  St.  Augustine's  Confessions,  book  i.  chap.  iv. 


134  ^  Romance  of 

was  the  "  Confessions  of  Augustine."  As  he 
read  he  felt  his  eyes  moisten,  and  at  last  he 
started  at  a  tear  that  dropped  on  the  page 
before  him. 

"  What's  Hecuba  to  me,  or  I  to  Hecuba  ?" 
he  exclaimed.  "  Do  I  really  mean  that  ?  or 
is  it  really  another  form  of  self-indulgence  ? 
My  God,  what  am  I  ?  Is  there  anything  in 
me  not  contemptible?" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  remained 
for  some  time  motionless.  When  he  moved 
himself,  he  did  so  with  resolution.  He 
opened  a  drawer  in  his  writing-table,  he  took 
out  some  paper,  and  after  a  certain  further 
hesitation  he  abruptly  put  pen  to  it.  He  was 
occupied  in  this  way  for  hours ;  now  he  wrote 
rapidly,  now  he  paused  and  leaned  back  con- 
sidering ;  now  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
library,  and  then  returned  to  his  seat  again. 
Once,  too,  there  occurred  a  different  incident ; 
he  dropped  for  a  few  moments  upon  his 
knees,  and  hid  his  face  with  his  hands. 

What  he  wrote  was  as  follows  :— 

"  Why  should  a  man  wince  at  the  sight  of 
his  Inmost  thoughts  ?  Is  he  not  a  coward,  if 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  135 

he  does  not  dare  confront  them  ?  Ah  me, 
I  am  a  coward;  I  wince  and  I  hold  back; 
false  shame  overawes  me.  But  my  heart  is 
troubled  ;  my  spirit  is  bruised  and  beaten, 
and  courage  at  last  has  come  to  me  from  my 
wretchedness.  I  may  pretend  I  am  happy; 
but  oh,  my  God,  I  am  not  happy.  It  is  true 
that  my  friends  or  the  delicious  sunshine 
make  my  blood  beat  with  pleasure,  and  many 
other  such  trifles  excite  me.  I  become  ex- 
cited childishly ;  and  I  forget  myself  into  a 
bright,  false  happiness.  But  all  the  while 
there  is  a  worm  gnawing  at  my  heart,  and 
whenever  I  reflect  I  feel  it.  I  have  tried  to 
deceive  myself ;  I  have  tried  to  say  this  is  not 
so.  But  I  can  deceive  myself  no  longer ; 
and  now  I  will  face  the  truth.  I  will  see 
what  I  am ;  I  will  examine  this  mangled  self 
of  mine.  Yes — I  will  put  my  thoughts  into 
shameless  black  and  white  ;  they  shall  have  a 
solid  body  that  I  cannot  pretend  eludes  me. 
Quick ! — though  I  am  shuddering,  let  me  get 
the  icy  shock  over ;  let  me  plunge  into  con- 
fession. What  should  make  me  hesitate? 
No  one  will  see  these  pages,  with  this  blurred 


136  A  Romance  of 

image  of  my  soul  cast  on  them.     Whenever  I 
wish  it  the  fire  can  keep  my  secret. 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?  Shall  I  speak  as  in 
reality  my  soul  pines  to  speak  ?  I  will. 

"  O  my  God,  holiest  and  mightiest,  most 
pitiful  and  yet  most  just,  what  I  pine  for  is 
to  speak  to  Thee.  Let  me  write  Thy  name- 
let  me  brand  it  in  writing,  not  think  it  only 
in  faint  and  fleeting  thoughts.  Let  me  rouse 
my  ears  with  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  cry- 
ing to  Thee.  O  God,  what  I  long  for  is  to 
lay  bare  my  soul — to  open  it,  to  disrobe  it, 
to  expose  it  naked  before  Thee  ;  and  to  cry 
to  Thee  to  have  pity,  to  have  pity,  and  to 
look  upon  me. 

"  And  yet,  how  dare  I,  impure  and  faith- 
less, loving  nothing — so  they  tell  me — and 
nobody  ?  For  Thou  art  pure  and  holy ;  and 
my  very  friend  has  told  me  that  I  am  viler 
than  most  men.  Oh  God,  Thou  knowest  if 
I  am  so.  Am  I  indeed  an  outcast  ?  Teach 
me  to  know  myself ;  humble  my  pride  ;  en- 
lighten me.  Oh  my  God,  I  am  not  mocking 
Thee.  What  I  ask  of  Thee  is  what  my 
heart  is  crying  for. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  137 

"And  yet  if  indeed  Thou  hearest  me,  I 
must  seem  like  one  awaking ;  for  Thou 
knowest  how  faith  has  failed  me,  and  how 
bewildered  and  dark  my  mind  is.  For  even 
whilst  I  am  crying  to  Thee,  whilst  I  am  try- 
ing to  open  to  Thee  all  my  secret  being,  I 
know  not,  I  am  not  sure  if  you  have  any 
existence — you,  the  God  I  am  crying  to. 
Perhaps  you  are  only  a  dream — an  idea — a 
passing  phenomenon  in  man's  mental  history. 
And  yet  surely,  if  Thou  existest,  Thou  wilt 
not,  even  for  this  cause,  turn  away  from 
me,  quenching  the  smoking  flax.  May  it 
not  be  that  Thou  art  revealing  Thyself 
to  me,  through  my  wretched  sense  of  Thy 
absence  ? 

"  But  from  me  why  art  Thou  absent?  Is 
it  through  my  sins,  through  my  own  loveless 
nature  ?  Have  I  nothing  in  my  soul  fit  to 
offer  Thee  ?  And  for  this  cause  hast  Thou 
put  me  far  away  from  Thee  ? 

"  I  may  be  evil  now  ;  I  may  be  in  outer 
darkness ;  but  I  know  that  I  was  not  always. 
I  was  once  near  Thee  ;  I  was  once  ever  with 
Thee.  That  was  when  I  was  a  little  child. 


138  A  Romance  of 

O  my  God,  I  will  confess  to  Thee  through 
my  childhood. 

"  I  was  no  saint,  Thou  knowest ;  I  was  a 
little  worldly  child,  yet  I  will  maintain  even 
to  Thy  face  that  as  a  child  I  loved  Thee,  and 
with  a  child's  frankness  I  was  always  in  secret 
turning  to  Thee.  I  thought  of  Thee  in  my 
play,  I  thought  of  Thee  in  riding  my  pony. 
Hardly  an  hour  passed  in  which,  without 
kneeling,  I  did  not  say  some  word  to  Thee. 
Nor  did  this  end  with  my  childhood,  for  as  I 
grew  older,  and  as  my  thoughts  multiplied, 
more  and  more  in  secret  did  they  fasten  upon 
Thee.  And  I  grew  very  greedy  to  fear  Thee, 
and  yet  I  was  not  afraid  to  love  Thee  ;  for 
my  own  sins  were  small,  and  I  washed  them 
out  with  nightly  penitence.  Often  hast  Thou 
heard  my  boyish  lips  confessing  them. 

"  But  as  I  thought  upon  Thy  perfections, 
and  as  I  looked  round  upon  the  world,  a  new 
sense  grew  in  me.  It  was  a  sense  of  the 
world's  sin,  and  of  how  Thou  wast  being 
grieved  and  blasphemed  everywhere.  Of 
men's  sorrow,  and  want,  and  poverty,  I  had 
not  heard  much.  What  touched  me  was  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  139 

misery  of  the  sin  that  they  lay  wallowing  in. 
The  thought  of  this  was  never  quite  absent 
from  me.  It  haunted  me  day  and  night 
through  all  my  later  boyhood  ;  my  heart  was 
nearly  always  aching  with  it.  It  very  often 
subdued  me  in  my  gayest  moments.  Thou 
knowest  how  for  this  reason  a  great  city  was 
hateful  to  me.  I  felt  that  there  was  sin 
everywhere  :  that  men  were  killing  their  own 
souls  on  all  sides.  In  the  same  way,  although 
I  could  see  my  school-fellows  unhappy,  and 
yet  be  little  moved  by  it,  yet  many  a  time 
when  I  have  seen  some  young  soul  corrupting 
itself,  I  have  said,  '  I  would  die,  if  he  might 
be  saved  from  sinning.'  Oh  God,  Thou  hast 
heard  me,  if  Thou  hearest  anything.  Thou 
knowest,  too,  how  my  pillow  has  been  damp 
with  tears  from  my  thinking  on  these  things. 
"  Thus  the  time  drew  on  when  there  was 
a  new  thing  to  happen  to  me.  I  was  to  draw 
near  to  Thee  at  Thy  Son's  altar.  For  this 
cause  I  turned  my  thoughts  upon  myself 
more  earnestly  ;  and  I  cleansed  my  heart  as 
I  had  never  done  before.  And  I  received 
thy  Son's  self  into  me  with  fear  and  trem- 


140  A  Romance  of 

bling ;  and  I  was  drawn  closer,  O  Thou  Holy 
One,  to  Him  and  Thee.  And  at  the  same 
time  also  my  early  life  was  expanding.  My 
passions  and  the  world's  excitements  began 
to  stir  me,  and  shot  new  colors  into  exist- 
ence ;  and  I  hoped  for  love  and  for  com- 
panionship, and  I  longed  for  beauty.  The 
sadness  and  the  rapture  overcame  me  that 
together  stir  men  to  singing.  But  Thou,  O 
my  God,  wert  present  in  all  this.  If  I  longed 
for  the  love  of  a  woman,  it  was  that  both  our 
faces  might  turn  to  Thee.  And  I  saw  Thee, 
too,  in  the  blue  sky  and  in  the  sunset,  and  in 
the  reedy  river  with  the  moon  in  it,  and  in 
the  sea,  and  the  sea-shore.  And  each  year  I 
was  tempted  with  more  and  more  temptations, 
but  I  still  kept  watch  over  myself,  and  always 
in  my  trouble  I  cried  to  Thee.  I  spoke  to 
no  friend  about  these  things.  I  communed 
with  Thee  only,  and  I  tried  very  hard  to 
carry  the  cross  of  Christ.  When  I  have  been 
dining  with  gay  companions  I  have  seen  His 
face  before  me  beyond  the  lights  and  glasses. 
I  have  seen  Him  worn  and  sorrowful,  pleading 
with  and  reproaching  me.  He  has  often  said 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  141 

to  me  in  the  midst  of  my  laughter,  '  I  have 
suffered  so  much  for  thy  sake,  canst  thou  not 
suffer  even  a  little  for  Mine  ? ' 

"  I  lived  like  this  for  some  four  or,  it  might 
be,  five  years,  and  then  the  time  began  when 
Thou  wert  slowly  to  be  withdrawn  from  me. 
Why  was  this,  my  God?  Was  it  for  my  sins? 
And  if  so,  for  what  sins  ?  When,  when  did 
they  begin  ?  For  Thou  wast  not  withdrawn 
from  me  through  my  frightening  Thee,  but 
through  my  ever  thinking  of  Thee.  I  studied 
much  and  many  things ;  and  whatever  I 
studied,  I  applied  it  to  Thy  Church  and  Thee. 
And  new  lights  broke  on  me,  and  new  roads 
of  knowledge  ;  and  my  soul  suffered  violence, 
and  the  sight  of  its  eyes  was  changed.  For  by 
and  by,  though  the  change  came  very  slowly, 
all  that  I  had  once  been  taught  about  Thee, 
the  Sacraments  also,  through  which  I  once 
thought  I  approached  Thee,  became  to  me 
like  outworn  symbols.  I  struggled  to  stay 
the  change.  I  called  to  Thee,  Thou  knowest 
how  often,  to  keep  it  from  me.  Thou  know- 
est how,  as  I  felt  my  prayers  grow  faint,  and 
their  words  lose  their  meaning,  I  still  said  to 


142  A  Romance  of 

Thee  every  night  and  morning,  'I  believe; 
help  Thou  mine  unbelief.'  Thou  knowest, 
too,  when  Thou  gavest  me  no  answer,  how  I 
tried  to  find  help  thus,  '  He  that  doeth,'  I 
said,  '  shall  know  of  the  doctrine ; '  and  I 
tried  with  fresh  diligence  to  do  my  daily 
duties,  hoping  that  in  this  way  might  my  faith 
revive  again.  But  it  never  did  revive.  On 
the  contrary,  the  spirit  of  this  age  seemed  for- 
ever, like  a  cold  wind,  to  be  playing  on  my 
naked  limbs,  and  to  be  sending  a  creeping 
chill  through  them. 

"  And  yet,  my  God,  though  Thy  revealed 
word  was  becoming  thus  incredible  to  me, 
Thou  knowest  I  still  cried  to  Thee.  On  Thee 
alone  my  thoughts  still  centre  ;  nay,  I  tried  to 
persuade  myself  that  I  should  find  Thee  better 
with  no  written  word  to  hinder  me.  But  all 
this  while  I  was  recoiling  farther  from  Thee ; 
and  the  more  earnestly  I  sought  Thee,  the 
less  near  did  I  seem  to  come  to  Thee,  till  at 
last  I  was  like  a  blinded  bird,  I  knew  not 
whither  even  to  try  to  fly ;  and  this  body  of 
mine,  this  temple  of  Thy  Holy  Spirit,  has 
been  left  empty ;  and  vain  thoughts  and 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  143 

desires  had  been  holding  and  still  hold  fes- 
tival in  it. 

"  Oh  my  God,  if  Thou  art,  why  for  me  art 
Thou  not  ?  Why  art  Thou  thus  withdrawn 
from  me  ?  Is  it  because  I  have  sinned  ?  Can 
that  be  the  reason  ?  Surely  this  Thou  know- 
est,  that  it  was  not  what  men  call  sin  that 
made  my  eyes  dim  to  see  Thee.  It  was  not 
the  lust  of  the  flesh,  nor  the  pride  of  life, 
although  both  of  these  assailed  me.  And  if 
since  then  evil  things  have  had  hold  on  me,  I 
have  sinned  because  I  first  lost  Thee ;  I  have 
now  lost  Thee  through  sinning.  Surely  this 
must  be  so.  I  know  of  nothing  that,  could 
I  only  find  Thee,  I  would  not  renounce  for 
Thy  sake.  There  is  no  man  or  woman  that  I 
could  not  renounce  easily,  reserving  no  more 
care  for  them  than  to  work  for  their  souls  in- 
differently. No — what  I  have  lost  Thee  by  is 
not  sin  ;  it  is  rather  the  very  things  whereby 
I  resisted  sin  ;  it  is  my  reason,  my  intellect, 
and  my  longing  for  what  is  true.  I  have  lost 
Thee,  my  God,  through  my  earnest  search  to 
find  Thee. 

"  And  yet,  for  all  this,  do  I  dare  to  say  I  am 


144  -^  Romance  of 

sinless  ?  My  God,  my  sins  are  many.  Now 
indeed  it  is  possible  they  help  to  hide  Thee 
from  me.  Perhaps  I  am  far  worse  than  I 
think  I  am ;  for  has  not  my  very  friend  told 
me  that  I  am  viler  than  most  men  ?  Does  he 
speak  truth  ?  Perhaps.  For  certainly  in  many 
ways — it  maybe  in  all  ways — he  is  a  better  man 
than  I  am.  The  ties  and  the  affections  of  this 
life — those  joys  and  sorrows  with  which  Thou 
hast  surrounded  us — touch  him,  and  take  hold 
of  him,  and  leave  deep  marks  in  him  ;  but  me 
they  touch  only  on  the  shadows  in  a  dream 
night.  Perhaps  then  here  is  the  secret.  Per- 
haps I  am  vile,  not  knowing  it,  because  to 
renounce  all  for  Thy  sake  would  be  so  very 
small  a  pay  to  Thee,  and  a  sacrifice  to  Thee 
is  worthless  of  that  which  has  cost  us  nothing. 
What  then  ?  Must  one  love  Thy  creatures 
before  one  can  love  Thee  ?  Must  one  not 
rather  love  Thy  creatures  because  of  Thee. 

"  Thy  creatures !  Were  they  Thine  I  could 
indeed  love  them.  I  should  know  that  there 
was  in  them  some  eternal  worth  and  value. 
But  without  Thee,  what  are  they  more  than 
shadows  are  ?  What  are  they  more  than  I, 


The  Nineteenth   Century. 

who  am  the  most  frail  and  void  of  shadows  ? 
They  get  no  hold  on  me,  nor  I  any  on  them. 
For  a  little  while  one  pleases  me,  and  then  a 
little  while  and  it  does  not  please.  It  comes 
near  me ;  presently  it  recedes  again,  and  an- 
other is  pushed  into  the  place  of  it ;  and  in 
me  there  is  left  no  regret,  nor  any  pain  in 
my  heart.  And  how  shall  this  be  otherwise  ? 
And  what  shall  give  these  ghosts  substance  ? 
Why,  without  Thee,  what  but  a  mere  ghost 
is  the  universe,  even  to  its  farther  stars  ?  Of 
the  only  cosmos  man  can  ever  know  or  con- 
ceive of,  he  is  himself  the  co-creator ;  and 
with  the  ending  of  his  consciousness  the  All 
ends  also.  It  falls  like  a  house  of  cards  when 
one  card  is  taken  away  from  it.  Such  is  it 
without  Thee.  And  yet  it  is  told  me  that  if 
I  loved  my  fellow-ghosts,  above  all  if  I  would 
take  to  my  heart  some  one  of  them,  they  would 
then  be  ghosts  no  longer;  and  that,  they  being 
thus  made  real  to  me,  I  should  again  discern 
Thee. 

"  This  may  be  true.  There  may  be  some 
philosophy  in  it.  The  love  of  another  may  be 
the  source  of  a  faith  in  the  objective  realities, 


146  A  Romance  of 

and  in  Thee,  my  God,  the  chief  of  these.  By 
Love  as  well  as  by  the  Word,  the  Heavens 
are  perhaps  made.  But,  Oh  my  God,  wouldst 
Thou  only  reveal  Thyself  first  to  me,  wouldst 
Thou  only  show  me  that  Thou  indeed  existest, 
I  will  love  all  things  then  for  Thy  sake !  Thou 
knowest  what  holds  me  back.  It  is  the  Rea- 
son Thou  thyself  hast  given  me,  which  lurks 
behind  the  knowledge  I  have  heaped  together 
faithfully,  and  whenever  I  try  to  rise,  lays  a 
long,  cold  hand  on  me. 

"  And  yet  I  will  not  deceive  myself,  for  even 
if  Thou  didst  reveal  Thyself,  I  doubt  about 
this  thing :  I  doubt  if  I  should  love  as  I  am 
told  I  ought  to  love.  For,  my  God,  if  Thou 
existest  Thou  lovest  all  Thy  creatures,  and 
they  are  all  infinitely  precious.  How  then 
am  I  to  inflame  or  influence  my  heart,  that  I 
should  permanently  love  some  one  of  these 
more  than  I  love  the  others  ?  I  am  perplexed, 
I  cannot  tell.  Yet  I  know — even  my  common 
sense  tells  me — that  it  is  only  in  this  way  that 
loving  men  do  love. 

"  Nay,  this  too  Thou  knowest  of  me,  that 
I  have,  as  a  fact,  striven  to  love  in  this  way. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  147 

I  sought  to  marry,  and  to  be  faithful  all  my  life 
to  another ;  and  I  trusted  that  with  another's 
eyes  I  might  again  discern  Thee.  But  even 
this  hope  failed  me.  For  what  return  did  she 
whom  I  chose  make  to  me  ?  She  gave  me 
no  help  that  I  needed ;  but  proffered  me 
comfortless  comfort,  and  help  that  I  had  no 
need  of.  Instead  of  showing  me  Thee,  she 
turned  away  and  prepared  to  worship  me. 
She  would  have  made  me  into  her  God,  in- 
stead of  guiding  me  to  mine.  And  for  a  time 
this  consoled  me  a  little,  but  I  soon  grew 
weary  of  it,  and  more  restless  than  ever.  For 
how  should  this  blind  passion  satisfy  me  ?  I 
did  but  blind  her  to  Thee.  She  did  not  show 
Thee  to  me. 

"It  seems,  then,  that  I  have  tried  every- 
thing. And  now,  my  God,  what  remains  fof 
me  ?  How  shall  I  plant  my  foot  firm  in  this 
land  of  shadows  ?  I  am  not  in  pain.  Ah,  if 
I  were  in  pain  there  would  be  more  hope  for 
me.  And  I  would  not  complain  to  Thee  that 
I  did  not  feed  upon  roses,  if  Thou  wouldst 
vouchsafe  only  that  the  thorns  might  wound 
and  tear  me.  And  yet,  O  God,  Thou  knowest 


148  A  Romance  of 

I  am  distracted  still  by  trifles,  by  pleasures 
that  are  no  pleasures,  and  by  pains  that  are 
no  pains.  And  Thou  hast  given  me  high 
spirits,  and  Thou  hast  hidden  my  soul  in  a 
raiment  of  light  laughter,  and  in  what,  even 
to  me,  sometimes  seems  contentment.  But 
my  brain  is  empty ;  I  know  not  where  to  turn. 
To  this  thing  and  to  this  thing  I  would  apply 
myself ;  but  whenever  I  begin  to  stir  myself, 
the  reason  which  Thou  hast  given  me  plucks 
me  by  the  ear,  and  hisses  in  a  whisper,  '  To 
what  purpose  ?  Are  not  all  things  vanity  ? ' 

"  And  what  is  this  I  say  ?  To  whom  am  I 
speaking?  I  am  speaking  to  One  of  whose 
very  existence  I  am  doubtful.  I  am  not  cer- 
tain if  I  could  stake  a  hundred  pounds  upon 
it.  Oh,  my  forlorn  hopes  !  My  reason  trips 
me,  I  am  entangled  and  thrown  down.  Fool 
that  I  am — wretched,  wretched  fool !  And  yet, 
though  I  am  thus  laying  prostrate,  thrown 
abject  and  confused  upon  the  ground,  I  will 
not  be  hindered.  O  God,  I  still  will  speak 
to  Thee.  I  will  plead  with  Thee,  and  call 
Thee  to  witness  that  at  least  I  have  been  near 
Thee,  that  I  have  known  Thy  presence,  and 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  149 

that,  far  away  though  I  be  from  Thee  now, 
though  this  world  of  shadows  may  now  blind 
my  eyes  to  Thee,  there  is  nothing  in  it  any- 
where that  I  have  longed  for  as  I  have  longed 
for  Thee,  there  is  nothing  I  have  desired  in 
comparison  of  Thee.  Thou  hast  been  to  me 
my  all,  my  life,  my  light,  and  my  salvation. 
Thou  hast  been  the  one  wealth  of  my  soul — 
its  one  and  only  fire  ;  and  all  that  has  hidden 
Thee  has  been  but  as  burning  ashes. 

"  Am  I  mad  ?  Am  I  a  hypocrite  ?  Am  I 
dreaming  ?  Am  I  lying  to  myself,  as  I  write 
thus  ?  Am  I  playing  a  part  before  myself 
to  deceive  myself  ?  O  my  God,  after  all,  is 
it  nothing  but  my  own  sin,  my  own  love- 
lessness  that  stands  between  me  and  Thee  ? 
Dost  Thou  put  me  away,  seeing  how  lightly 
I  have  esteemed  Thy  creatures  ?  Have  I,  as 
Campbell  said  to  me,  quenched  Thy  Spirit  ?  " 

How  odd  Campbell's  name  looked,  stuck 
in  like  that ! 

"  My  God — is  it  not  possible  that  I  may 
plead  my  cause  thus  with  Thee  ?  May  I  not 
justify  myself  to  Theer  and  say,  the  worse  I 
am  now,  the  more  does  this  show  how  I  loved 


150  A  Romance  of 

Thee.  Thou  wast  present  in  every  affection, 
in  every  energy  of  my  life  ;  therefore  with 
my  withdrawal  every  energy,  every  affection 
is  ruined.  Yes — I  might  say  this,  but  for 
one  thing.  Ah  me,  my  God,  behold  what  is 
now  happening  to  me.  The  desire  of  Thee 
has  long  made  me  miserable  ;  and,  ah,  more 
miserable  that  I  am  !  even  my  desire  for 
Thee  is  now  deserting  me.  My  heart  is  ceas- 
ing to  ache  for  Thee.  A  hateful  peace  is 
slowly  soothing  it  to  its  death.  My  soul  is 
getting  colder  and  colder  ;  warmth  is  leaving 
it,  as  it  leaves  a  man  who  is  dying.  Oh,  my 
God,  remain  with  me.  Keep  my  pain  and 
my  desolation  alive  in  me  !  If  Thou  wilt  not 
fill  the  void  in  my  heart  that  Thou  didst  once 
fill,  let  the  void  remain  void,  let  nothing  else 
fill  it.  Give  me  no  peace,  unless  it  be  Thy 
peace.  Torment  me,  but  forsake  me  not. 
Scourge  me,  keep  me  wretched  and  restless 
till  I  find  Thee !  This  is  indeed  a  sincere 
prayer.  Oh,  my  God,  is  it  a  wrong  one  ?  " 

Here  he  came  to  a  long  pause,  and  threw 
his  pen  down,  as  if  he  would  write  no  more. 
He  looked  round  the  room  wearily,  and 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  151 

stared  in  a  kind  of  a  stupor  on  the  various 
books  about  him.  At  last  his  eye  fixed  on  a 
volume  of  Herbert  Spencer,  and  for  many 
minutes  he  was  motionless.  Then  seizing 
the  pen  again,  he  rapidly  added  what  follows  : 

"  This  our  mental  condition — over  our  sins 
or  longings — over  inward  peace  or  agony — 
to  the  teachers  of  the  present  day  what  sickly 
trifles,  what  phantoms  such  things  seem  ! — or 
at  best,  what  a  storm  in  a  saucer  !  To  the 
prophets  of  humanity  an  unskilful  bricklayer 
is  a  more  tragic  object  than  a  ruined  soul ! " 

Several  times  during  the  long  course  of 
his  writing  Vernon  had  gone  to  the  window 
and  peered  out.  He  now  went  again  once 
more,  and  the  moon  was  setting — the  moon, 
which  during  his  after-dinner  walk  had  been 
so  high  in  the  middle  heavens.  This  showed 
him  that  the  night  must  be  far  spent.  Pres- 
ently his  eye  fell  on  a  small  side-table,  and 
there  lay  an  object  so  commonplace,  that  it 
seemed  to  him  like  a  spectre.  It  was  a  letter 
he  had  not  before  noticed  that  had  come  for 
him  by  che  evening's  post.  The  writing, 
which  was  large  and  decided,  might  have 


152  A  Romance  of 

been  either  a  man's  or  woman's;  and  he 
fancied  it  was  familiar,  though  he  could  con- 
nect no  name  with  it.  He  broke  open  the 
envelope,  as  if  the  sight  of  it  had  half-dazed 
him  ;  and  the  first  words  he  read  sent  all  the 
blood  to  his  cheek. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Vernon," — began  the  letter, 
"  when  I  saw  you  the  other  day  I  quite  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  my  very  heart  was  broken. 
("What!"  thought  Vernon,  "can  this  be 
from  Miss  Walters  ?  "  He  went  on  reading.) 
"  And  only  a  clever  young  man  like  you  can 
be  of  the  least  comfort  to  me.  My  poor  little 
darling  Skye  terrier,  Prinny — the  thing  on  this 
earth  I  have  loved  best  and  longest — was  run 
over  and  killed  the  other  day  by  a  young 
man  with  a  tandem.  Only  conceive  it — a 
tandem  !  And  this  young  gentleman  could 
have  hardly  held  in  a  donkey.  Had  he  been 
one  of  my  stable-helps,  I  should  have  known 
pretty  well  what  to  do  with  him.  And  now 
you — if  you  will,  I  want  you  to  write  an 
epitaph  for  me.  My  angel  is  being  em- 
balmed by  a  very  accomplished  bird-stuffer, 
and  is  to  have  Christian  burial  when  I  get 


The  Nineteenth   Century. 

back  to  England.  Your  verses  shall  have  a 
most  honorable  place  ;  so  be  a  good  man,  and 
write  them  for  me."  And  then  followed  the 
bold  signature  of  the  Duchess. 

With  a  tired  sleepy  smile  Vernon  again  sat 
down  at  his  writing-table.  A  thought  had 
struck  him  suddenly  ;  and  seizing  the  pen  he 
scribbled  these  hasty  lines  : — 

"Thou  art  gone  to  sleep,  and  we — 
May  we  some  day  sleep  like  thee. 
Prinny,  were  this  heart  of  mine 
Half  so  true,  my  dog,  as  thine, 
I  my  weary  watch  should  keep 
For  a  something  more  than  sleep  !  " 

Whatever  besides  sleep  the  exhausted 
writer  may  have  longed  for,  sleep,  at  least, 
now  unexpectedly  fell  upon  him.  His  eye- 
lids grew  heavy  like  lead,  the  pen  dropped 
from  his  hand,  and,  sinking  back  in  his  chair, 
he  became  lost  to  consciousness. 


154  <A  Romance  oj 


CHAPTER  II. 

TTTHEN  Vernon  awoke  it  was  already 
daylight  :  the  Venetian  shutters  were 
barred  with  the  red  gleams  of  morning.  His 
eyelids  ached,  and  he  looked  about  him  be- 
wildered. 

"  What  has  happened  to  me  ?  "  he  said  to 
himself.  "Am  I  awake,  or  is  this  a  night- 
mare ?  " 

He  paced  about  the  library,  at  first  almost 
staggering ;  but  by  and  bye  he  recovered 
himself.  He  mounted  to  his  bedroom.  It 
had  a  ghastly  alien  aspect.  There  was  his 
bed — cold,  smooth,  and  unslept  in — with  his 
night-shirt  folded  lying  upon  it.  He  ruffled 
the  sheets  and  pillow,  that  he  might  seem  to 
his  servant  to  have  passed  the  night  as  usual ; 
for,  as  to  lying  down,  it  was  the  last  thing  he 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  155 

now  thought  of.  Then  he  tore  his  clothes 
off  and  plunged  into  a  cold  bath.  He  re- 
dressed himself,  he  made  a  large  cup  of  cof- 
fee over  a  spirit-lamp,  and  having  drunk  it, 
he  softly  stole  out  of  doors. 

The  long  shadows  of  the  clear  day  in  its 
infancy  made  his  garden  wear  an  unfamiliar 
face  for  him.  But  the  living  breath  of  the 
air,  fresh  with  the  dew,  and  quick  with  the 
smells  of  flower-beds,  woke  in  him  new  pulses. 
He  paused  and  looked  about  him  that  his 
spirit  might  "drink  the  spectacle."'  The 
sea  was  a  pale  sheet,  sharply  dark  at  the 
horizon,  where  it  washed  with  its  long  levels 
the  reddening  tract  of  sunrise  ;  and  it  was 
strewn  with  floating  fragments  of  the  crocus 
and  the  rose  of  the  sky.  The  faint  prom- 
ontories of  Italy  slept  in  a  veil  of  vapor. 
Inland  lay  the  far  hill-villages,  white  scat- 
tered specks  on  the  huge  slope  of  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  below  them  were  sombre  ranges 
of  far-reaching  mounded  olive-woods.  These 
were  unchanging  in  their  soft  impassive 

*  "  His  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle."— WORDSWORTH. 


156  A  Romance  of 

darkness ;  but  except  on  these  the  light 
was  brightening  everywhere :  and  presently, 
far  beyond  them,  the  bleak  gigantic  high- 
lands flushed  all  from  gray  into  a  sudden 
liquid  rose-color,  as  they  caught  the  risen 
splendor  on  their  naked  frosts  or  dews. 

Vernon  as  he  looked  felt  himself  come  to 
life  again,  but  to  a  life  of  clear  sensation 
rather  than  clear  thoughts.  Thoughts,  how- 
ever, of  some  kind  must  have  begun  to  dimly 
stir  in  him  ;  for  he  soon  found  himself  mov- 
ing in  a  definite  direction.  It  was  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Chateau  St.  John.  He  passed 
through  a  wicket,  with  a  large  open  expanse 
studded  with  heath  and  furze-bushes.  The 
sea  was  on  one  side  of  it ;  it  was  traversed 
by  several  paths ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  the  air 
and  view,  he  had  often  before  wandered  in 
it.  Here  he  paused.  Beyond  were  the  tufts 
and  plumes  of  the  luxuriant  Chateau  shrub- 
beries, and  between  these,  by  glimpses,  the 
Chateau  itself  was  visible.  Vernon's  eye 
fixed  on  the  line  of  windows.  The  blinds 
were  down  ;  the  whole  house  seemed  slum- 
bering. The  path  where  he  stood  led  to  a 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  157 

marble  gateway,  through  which  one  entered 
the  gardens  and  passed  into  an  avenue  of 
orange-trees.  Towards  this  gateway,  though 
he  could  not  explain  why,  he  was,  in  another 
moment,  moving.  Last  night  he  could  write 
his  thoughts ;  now  they  were  too  vague  for 
analysis.  He  only  knew  that  his  blood  was 
beating  quicker,  that  a  vein  in  each  temple 
was  throbbing  fast,  though  faintly,  and  that 
a  faint  shudder  for  an  instant  had  made  his 
whole  frame  tingle. 

He  passed  through  the  gates  with  a  feel- 
ing of  hope  and  peril ;  he  might  have  been 
entering  the  charmed  bounds  of  a  sorceress. 
And  yet  the  place  was  already  known  by 
heart  to  him  ;  and  only  a  week  ago  he  had 
roamed  at  his  own  will  in  it.  A  maze  of 
paths  branched  from  the  orange  avenue.  He 
instinctively  chose  one  that  led  far  away  from 
the  house,  and  that  brought  him  by  and  by  to 
a  long  succession  of  gardens,  terraced  on  the 
hill-side,  and  leading  down  to  the  sea.  He 
stole  on  rapidly,  past  urns  and  statues,  foun- 
tains and  set  flower-beds ;  he  descended  by 
broad  flights  of  steps  from  one  level  to 


158  A  Romance  of 

another,  and  he  at  last  diverged  into  a  steep 
winding  path,  which  dived  into  a  natural 
tunnel  amongst  certain  fantastic  rocks.  This 
brought  him  presently,  after  several  turnings, 
to  the  strand  of  a  tiny  bay.  On  either  side 
was  a  curve  of  sheltering  cliffs,  not  lofty  but 
precipitous,  and  plunging  straight  into  clear 
gray-green  sea-water.  The  strand  was  a  little 
platform,  gravelled  carefully,  and  backed  by  a 
bed  of  violets. 

Here  he  paused,  and  at  last  began  to 
meditate.  Slowly  his  vague  feelings  turned 
into  thoughts  and  images.  His  vigils  of  the 
night  came  back  to  him,  with  the  strange 
projection  on  paper  he  had  made  of  his  own 
condition  ;  and  they  took  a  ghastly  aspect  as 
the  air  of  the  morning  breathed  on  them. 
Mixed,  too,  with  these  phantasmal  memories 
were  thoughts  of  a  different  order,  which  soon 
began  to  reveal  themselves  with  semitrans- 
parent  bodies.  They  were  thoughts  of  the 
clear-cheeked  mistress  of  the  grounds  where 
he  was  now  trespassing.  No  sooner  had  he 
become  conscious  of  this,  than  a  memory 
came  back  to  him  of  certain  sayings  of  Camp- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  159 

bell's,  and  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  with 
weary  self-reproach,  "  Why  am  I  here  ?  Do  I 
think  again  of  yielding?  Why  am  I  here? 
What  has  brought  me  here  ?  Is  not  my 
imagination  at  its  old  game  again,  once  more 
leading  me  into  a  time  of  dissolute  idleness, 
with  an  aimless  wasting  of  what  might  be 
some  true  affection,  or  at  least  some  true 
sense  of  duty  ?  I  do  not  love  this  girl.  I 
have  no  wish  to  bind  myself.  All  the  fine 
and  all  the  high  feelings  she  stirs  in  me — I 
value  them  only  as  a  subtle  form  of  excite- 
ment :  and  the  finer  the  feelings  are — yes,  that 
is  indeed  true — the  worse  for  us  is  it  when  we 
play  with  them.  Let  me  be  brave  for  once ; 
let  me  make  one  sacrifice ;  let  me  call  my 
imagination  away  from  her.  And  yet — ah 
me — those  lovely,  lovely  lips  of  hers ! " 

At  this  moment  a  slight  noise  startled 
him.  He  turned  quickly  round,  and  there,  at 
the  distance  of  a  pace  or  two,  she  was  herself 
standing  before  him.  In  an  instant,  like  bats 
from  daylight,  his  scruples  took  wing,  and  hid 
themselves.  He  was  conscious  of  a  shock,  as 
of  all  his  will  yielding.  In  a  little  while  he 


160  A  Romance  of 

stood  silent  and  looked  at  her,  feeling  noth- 
ing but  his  own  blood  beating,  and  letting 
his  eyes  rest  on  her.  Seen  thus  in  the  dawn- 
ing she  was  a  fresh  surprise  to  him.  His 
memory,  it  is  true,  had  retained  her  image 
clearly ;  but  it  had  let  the  image  tarnish,  and 
lose  its  exquisite  delicacy.  He  saw  she  was 
far  more  lovely  than  in  his  thoughts  just  now 
she  had  seemed  to  him.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  way  that,  it  was  evident,  was  meant  only 
for  solitude.  She  had  a  long  cloak  on,  with 
a  border  of  broad  sable.  It  was  fastened 
round  her  throat  with  additional  closeness  by 
a  small  brooch  of  diamonds  ;  and  below  it 
descended  a  pale  blue  satin  dressing-gown. 
She  had  apparently  taken  what  at  waking 
she  could  first  seize  upon,  for  on  her  slim 
shoes  there  was  a  glimmer  of  gold  em- 
broidery, and  on  one  of  her  hands  was  a 
long  evening  glove.  The  other  was  bare, 
and  held  a  pale,  dewy  rose  in  it. 

Vernon's  rapid  glance  took  in  all  these  de- 
tails ;  and  the  same  impression  was  renewed 
in  him  that  he  received  at  first  meeting  her. 
Everything  about  her  was  dainty,  almost  fine 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  161 

in  its  daintiness ;  yet,  in  relation  to  her,  it 
seemed  natural  as  her  own  complexion.  And 
she  herself,  with  the  early  light  caressing  her 
—had  that  complexion  stolen  a  tint  from 
morning  ?  Had  the  dews  of  night  washed 
her  violet  eyes  clearer  ? 

Miss  Walters  was  the  first  to  speak ;  but 
she  only  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Vernon!"  and  he 
for  the  first  moment  could  only  exclaim, 
"  Miss  Walters  ! "  He  was  not,  however,  a 
man  to  remain  long  tongue-tied ;  and  very 
soon,  with  a  smile,  he  was  begging  pardon  as 
a  trespasser.  "  Before  you  came  here,"  he 
said,  "  these  gardens  were  a  favorite  haunt  of 
mine  ;  and  I  thought  that,  under  cover  of  the 
morning,  I  might  venture  in,  just  once  more, 
undetected." 

"  And  I  thought,"  said  Miss  Walters,  with 
a  glance  at  her  own  costume,  "  that  I  might 
be  undetected  also.  I  certainly  did  not  come 
out  expecting  to  confront  company." 

The  soft  low  voice  in  which  these  words 
were  murmured,  showed  Vernon  that  she 
was  not  displeased  at  meeting  him.  Directly 
after  she  happened  to  drop  her  glove.  She 


1 62  A  Romance  of 

fixed  her  eyes  on  him  smiling,  and  said,  "  Pick 
that  up,  will  you."  It  was  a  simple  request  to 
make,  but  it  had  in  it  that  subtle  note  of  com- 
mand, the  assumption  of  which  by  a  woman 
is  one  of  the  first  signs  of  an  understanding. 
Vernon  understood  this  perfectly,  and  his 
heart  swelled  with  rapture.  He  was  fully 
launched  now  on  the  tide  of  luxurious  feeling; 
and  he  murmured  secretly,  as  his  eyes  met 
his  companion's,  "  My  own  !  my  own  !  "  The 
consciousness  of  having  even  in  thought  ap- 
plied such  a  phrase  as  this  to  a  woman,  might 
be  to  many  men  a  sharp  self-revelation  ;  but 
Vernon  knew  himself  far  too  well  to  think 
anything  serious  of  such  bursts  of  unuttered 
feeling.  No  lover,  however,  of  the  most  ear- 
nest and  genuine  kind  could  have  put  more 
tender  expression  than  he  did  into  his  voice 
when  he  asked  her  presently,  "  Are  you  al- 
ways so  early  a  riser  as  this  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  slept  badly  last 
night;  and  the  morning  looked  so  beautiful, 
I  huddled  on  these  things,  as  you  see — any- 
thing I  could  get  together ;  I  stole  out  noise- 
lessly, and  found  myself  in  a  fairy-land  of 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  163 

rv>ses,  silent  and  fresh  with  dew.  I  hardly 
know  these  gardens  yet.  They  are  all  a 
wonder  and  delight  to  me.  I  had  never  ex- 
plored that  little  tunnel  before ;  and  you  may 
judge  how  surprised  I  was  when  I  found  you 
standing  here. 

"  Let  me  show  you,"  said  Vernon,  "  the 
mysteries  of  your  own  domains.  Let  us  go 
up  again,  and  I  will  be  your  valet  de place" 

She  turned,  and  she  went  with  him.  His 
whole  being  was  possessed  with  the  sense  of 
her  near  companionship.  They  wandered  oo 
together  through  the  more  sequestered  walks, 
slowly  and  often  pausing,  for  the  sake  of  some 
sight  or  sound.  Now  it  was  a  bird's  song  that 
arrested  them,  now  a  prospect — a  fan-palm,  an 
arch  of  roses,  or  the  peaks  of  the  distant  Alps : 
and  such  things  as  these  were  for  some  time 
all  they  talked  about.  Impersonal,  however, 
as  the  conversation  seemed  to  be,  a  sense  of 
mutual  ease  between  them  was  growing  under 
its  kindly  shelter;  nor  was  this  to  be  wondered 
at.  Conversations  which  are  impersonal  in 
form,  are  sometimes  intensely  personal  in 
spirit.  The  subjects  spoken  about  are  like 


1 64  A  Romance  of 

the  masks  worn  at  a  ball ;  and  a  passion  can 
be  declared  plainly  under  the  guise  of  prais- 
ing a  view.  Things  on  the  present  occasion 
had  not  come  to  this ;  but  the  conversation 
was  full  on  both  sides  of  oblique  hints  of  feel- 
ing ;  and  the  subtle  response  of  Miss  Walters 
to  every  sight  of  beauty  revealed  to  Vernon 
new  depths  in  her  character.  She  saw  a 
thousand  minute  things  that  his  eyes  had 
passed  over,  even  to  the  play  of  the  dewdrops 
falling  from  leaf  to  leaf ;  and  when  he  pointed 
out  to  her  the  wider  and  bolder  prospects,  the 
feelings  they  stirred  in  her  seemed  to  be  more 
deep  than  his  own.  She  looked,  he  thought, 
amongst  the  dews  and  the  roses,  like  the  spirit 
of  the  morning  facing  its  own  creations. 

Presently  he  was  preparing  to  turn  up  a 
certain  path,  when  with  a  quick  movement 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  stopped 
him.  "  Not  that  path,"  she  said.  "  It  brings 
us  in  full  view  of  the  house  ;  and  to  the  ob- 
servation of  the  servants,  I  think,  we  should 
be  a  somewhat  mysterious  couple." 

When  a  woman  once  shows  herself  con- 
scious that  she  is  doing  anything  clandestine, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  165 

i  man  can  rarely  avoid  some  slight  change  in 
his  manner  towards  her :  and  Vernon  now,  as 
they  turned  into  a  different  path,  felt  that  he 
looked  at  her  with  a  slightly  less  disguised  ad- 
miration. Any  such  freedom,  however,  spent 
itself  like  a  relapsing  wave,  as  his  look  en- 
countered hers.  Her  eyes  showed  no  fear  of, 
or  no  offence  at  him.  They  were  full  only  of 
a  sad,  earnest  inquiry,  as  though  she  were  won- 
dering what  were  his  feelings.  As  she  thus 
regarded  him,  she  betrayed  something  he  had 
not  before  noticed.  In  spite  of  its  radiant 
aspect  her  face  bore  signs  of  weariness,  and 
under  her  eyes  were  streaks  of  transparent 
purple. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  absently,  as  Vernon  re- 
marked on  this  ;  "  last  night  I  was  very  wake- 
ful. And  you,"  she  added — "  I  think  the  same 
fate  must  have  been  yours.  Why,  Mr.  Vernon, 
how  is  it  that  this  has  escaped  me  ?  You  look 
more  than  tired  ;  haggard  is  the  only  word  for 
it.  Has  anything  painful  happened  to  you?" 

Vernon  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  ;  then 
he  answered  smiling,  "  You  make  me  speak  to 
you  ;  your  voice  acts  like  a  spell  on  me.  I 


1 66  A  Romance  of 

spent  last  night  face  to  face  with  a  spectre. 
I  spent  it  face  to  face  with  that  dead  self  of 
mine  which  I  told  you  I  had  come  here  to 
5nd  again." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  told  me.  To  some 
people  your  words  might  perhaps  have  had 
no  meaning.  But  I  understood  them.  I  have 
seen  and  known  things  that  made  them  quite 
plain  to  me.  Tell  me,  then — have  you  so 
soon  found  whaf  you  were  seeking  for?" 

"  Not  it — no;  but  the  phantom  of  it.  It 
was  the  piteous  phantom,  not  the  returning 
friend.  At  least  I  think  so ;  for  just  now  I 
can  be  sure  of  nothing.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  better." 

"  I,  too,"  she  said,  "  have  something  that  I 
may  perhaps  telljy0# — some  day." 

Vernon  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  and  then 
he  said  to  her,  "  Give  me  that  rose  as  a  pledge 
that  you  will  keep  your  promise." 

"  It  is  not  a  promise"  she  murmured,  "  it  is 
2i  perhaps  only."  But  at  the  same  time,  with 
a  slow  regretful  movement,  she  gave  him  the 
pledge  he  asked  for.  As  he  took  the  flower 
from  her,  their  hands  touched ;  for  a  few 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  167 

seconds  they  lingered  in  light  contact,  and 
then  gently,  and  with  no  resistance  on  her 
part,  Vernon  took  hers  in  his  own.  As  he 
held  it,  he  looked  into  her  face  silently ;  by  a 
slight  movement  he  made  her  turn  round  to 
the  sunrise,  and  raising  the  rose  in  his  hand, 
he  laid  it  against  her  cheek.  "And  you  are 
pale,"  he  said,  "like  one  of  these  creamy  rose- 
petals.  See  what  you  have  given  me — it  is 
your  own  image." 

Miss  Walters  made  no  answer,  excepting 
with  her  eyes  and  with  her  cheeks,  whose 
living  rose-leaf  flushed  with  a  faint  carnation. 
A  pause  here  might  have  been  not  without 
embarrassment.  Vernon  felt  this  with  the 
instinct  of  the  true  love-maker,  and  he  lit  on 
a  new  subject  instantly.  He  saw  that  in  her 
left  hand  she  was  holding  a  small  volume, 
and  with  a  voice  quite  altered,  he  asked, 
"  What  have  you  got  there  ?  " 

"  You  would  hardly  guess  perhaps,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  flickering  smile.  "  It  is  a 
Bible.  I  always  keep  it  by  the  side  of  my 
bed,  and  I  always  read  a  verse  or  two  in 
the  morning  when  I  get  up.  I  make  my 


1 68  A  Romance  of 

selections  in  a  way  no  critic  would  approve 
of  ;  and  I'm  sure  I  can't  explain  to  you  what 
my  exact  principle  is.  This  morning  I  chose 
— shall  I  tell  you  what?  Let  us  sit  down 
upon  this  bench  for  a  moment,  and  I  will 
read  it  out  to  you.  No—  "  she  said,  putting 
her  hand  on  his,  "  you  must  not  take  the 
book  from  me.  I  don't  want  you  to  see  the 
context.  '  Awake,  O  north  wind  ;  and  come, 
thou  south  ;  blow  upon  my  garden,  that  the 
spices  thereof  may  flow  out.  ...  I  sleep, 
but  my  heart  waketh  :  it  is  the  voice  of  my 
beloved  that  knocketh,  saying,  Open  to  me. 
my  sister,  my  love,  my  dove,  my  undefiled  : 
for  my  head  is  filled  with  dew,  and  my  locks 
with  the  drops  of  the  night.' " 

The  selection  of  this  passage  was  a  slight 
shock  to  Vernon,  or  rather  the  fact  that, 
having  selected  it,  she  should  have  thus  read 
it  to  him.  But  so  absent  from  her  seemed 
all  consciousness  that  it  could  have  any 
personal  application,  that  he  instantly  felt 
ashamed  of  so  vulgar  a  suspicion  of  her. 

"  They  are  beautiful  verses,"  said  Vernon, 
"  and  you  read  them  beautifully.  I  am  going 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  169 

to  ask  you  an  odd  question,  seeing  that  this 
is  only  our  second  meeting.  Do  you  say 
prayers  in  the  morning,  as  well  as  read  the 
Bible?" 

"  I  am  a  person,"  she  said  abstractedly, 
"  who  has  said  many  prayers,  many,  many, 
many.  I  have  passed  nights  of  watching,  just 
as  last  night  you  did.  But  women  endure 
and  suffer  with  more  patience  than  men  do." 

"  With  more  patience,  yes  ;  because  they 
have  less  to  suffer." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  true?"  she  said, 
smiling  sadly. 

"Not  of  all  women — no;  but  of  women 
like  you  it  must  be.  The  sufferings  we  talk 
of  are  those  of  the  heart  and  spirit.  I  don't 
know  your  history ;  your  burdens  may  have 
been  more  heavy  than  mine ;  but  they  have 
been  burdens  of  a  nobler  kind ;  they  have 
been  such  as  are  laid  only  on  those  who  are 
fit  to  bear  them.  It  is  far  easier  for  the  saint 
to  carry  the  cross,  than  for  the  sinner  to  find 
or  raise  it  again  when  he  has  once  dropped 
it  in  the  snow." 

Again  she  looked  at  him  with   the  same 


170  A  Romance  of 

sad  smile.  "  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "that 
I  am  a  saint,  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "you  are  not  a  saint. 
But  I  think  you  are  listening  for  the  sounds 
that  the  saints  hear." 

Presently  he  resumed.  "  I  might  perhaps 
have  thought  you  were  a  saint  already,  if  it 
were  not  for  one  reason." 

"  And  what  reason  is  that  ?  " 

"  Let  me  look  at  you  once  more :  let  me 
see  if  I  can  venture  to  tell  you.  Well — my 
reason  is  this.  If  I  knew  that  you  would 
never  know  it,  or  that  knowing,  you  would 
forgive  or  forget  it,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  I 
should  touch  your  lips  with  mine." 

As  Vernon  said  this,  he  again  put  out  his 
hand  to  her,  but  instead  of  meeting  it,  she 
raised  hers  to  her  face,  and  for  a  moment  hid 
her  eyes  with  it. 

"  Remember,"  she  said  presently,  "  nothing 
like  that  must  ever  come  into  our  friendship. 
I  have  set  you  apart  in  my  own  mind  from 
all  other  men,  and  you  must  learn  to  think  of 
me  not  as  others  have  done."  She  seemed 
to  be  half  pleading  with  and  half  warning 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  171 

him  ;  and  her  words  came  with  a  singular 
soft  solemnity  which  at  once  fanned  his  feel- 
ings and  made  him  resolved  to  check  them. 
"You  must  think  of  me,"  she  went  on,  "just 
as  I  am  to  think  of  you.  I  am  your  friend, 
or,  if  you  like  it,  your  sister :  and  near  rela- 
tions, you  know,  are  only  absurd  when  they 
are  sentimental." 

Vernon  could  not  understand  her.  She 
was  evidently  all  in  earnest  ;  but  there  was 
something  in  herself,  some  subtle  power  in 
her  presence,  by  which  her  words  were  more 
than  neutralized.  "  Surely,"  he  thought, 
"  this  is  not  the  voice  of  a  sister ;  and  when 
feelings  are  merely  sisterly  it  is  never  worth 
while  saying  so."  He  was  stung  by  a  hybrid 
impulse — the  wish  to  obey  her  words  and  the 
wish  to  yield  to  her  fascination. 

"  I  will  think  of  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "  in 
any  way  you  tell  me  to  :  and  you  shall  let 
me  call  you  by  the  name  you  have  yourself 
taught  me — my  sister,  my  love,  my  dove,  my 
undefiled.  May  I  call  you  that  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  she  clasped  her 
hands  before  her ;  he  could  see  that  she 


172  A  Romance  of 

clasped  them  tightly  :  and  she  sat  motionless 
with  her  eyes  turned  upwards.  At  last  she 
said,  "  Could  you  only  call  me  that  truly,  I 
would  give  up  everything  !  " 

"  What,"  murmured  Vernon,  "  should  hin- 
der me?  My  love,  my  dove,  my  undefiled, 
I  shall  always  connect  you  with  the  clear 
dews  of  the  morning ;  and  your  friendship 
will  revive  my  life  like  a  second  baptism." 

"  You  are  reckoning  without  your  host," 
she  answered,  still  looking  straight  before 
her,  and  shaking  her  head  slowly.  "  You 
know  nothing  about  me  yet,  nor  who  it  is 
you  are  speaking  to." 

"  What  is  wanting  in  my  knowledge,"  said 
Vernon,  "  is  made  up  by  my  instincts.  Think, 
we  have  only  met  twice  ;  and  yet  already  you 
are  my  friend  and  my  sister,  and  you  have 
already — at  least  I  think  so — put  a  new  life 
into  me.  I  feel  like  a  dusty  flower  that  has 
had  dew  fallen  on  it." 

She  rose  from  where  they  were  sitting,  and 
began  to  walk  on  slowly.  He  followed  her 
in  silence,  watching  her  graceful  movements. 
A  long  branch  of  roses  dangled  across  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  1 73 

path.  She  drew  it  towards  herself,  and  stood 
still,  smelling  one  of  the  blossoms.  Pres- 
ently, not  looking  at  Vernon,  "  I  think,"  she 
said,  "  you  had  perhaps  better  beware  of 
me." 

"  For  my  sake  or  for  yours  ?  " 

"  Not  for  mine,  certainly.  There  is  little 
need  for  me  to  beware  of  anything." 

"  Not  for  me  either,"  said  Vernon.  "  You 
will  not  ruin  my  peace.  I  should  perhaps  be 
a  better  man  if  you  were  able  to.  Friendship 
is  all  I  ask  for.  I  neither  expect  more  nor 
wish  for  it.  As  long  as  you  care  to  meet  me, 
let  my  heart  throb  as  I  think  of  you.  If  you 
withdraw  your  caring,  no  matter  how  capri- 
ciously— well,  I  will  not  reproach  you." 

"  I  doubt,"  she  said  smiling,  "  if  ever  I 
could  take  things  quite  so  easily  as  all  that. 
However,  we  shall  see — we  shall  see.  We 
shall  have  plenty  of  opportunities.  And  that 
reminds  me,"  here  all  of  a  sudden  her  manner 
became  conventional,  "  I  fear  you  called  upon 
us  yesterday  and  did  not  find  us  at  home.  It 
is  my  fault  that  you  had  your  trouble  for 
nothing.  I  had  written  you  a  note  myself 


174  -A  Romance  of 

the  day  before,  to  say  that  we  were  called 
away,  and  to  ask  you  in  my  aunt's  name  to 
dine  last  night  with  us.  But — you  see  this  is 
what  it  is  to  be  a  methodical  woman  ! — I  left 
it  on  my  dressing-table,  and  it  never  was 
taken  at  all.  You  would  have  only  met 
Colonel  Stapleton." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  Colonel  Staple- 
ton  ?  "  a  little  abruptly.  "  I  barely  know  him 
to  speak  to." 

"  Oh,"  she  said  carelessly,  "  you  can  see 
what  he  is  in  a  moment.  He  hunts  and 
shoots,  and  has  travelled  over  half  the  world. 
I  am  fond  of  him,  for  I've  known  him  ever 
since  I  was  so  high  ;  but  there's  not  much  in 
him  ;  and  I  don't  know  that  you  missed  much 
in  not  dining  with  us." 

"  The  night  before,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  had 
a  little  dinner  of  my  own.  My  guests  were 
an  old  college  friend,  who,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
is  gone  ;  and  a  poor  Catholic  priest,  who  is 
staying  near  here  for  his  health — an  excellent 
man,  but  a  little  depressing  sometimes." 

"  A  priest  ! "  said  Miss  Walters. 

"  Not  one  of  these  country  priests.     My 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  175 

friend  is  an  Englishman,  whom  I  once  knew 
well — a  fellow  called  Frederic  Stanley." 

"  Frederic  Stanley  !  " 

"  You  seem  surprised.  Do  you  know 
him  ?  He  is  stopping  here  at  the  Pension." 

"  Know  him  !  "  she  replied.  "  He  is  a  sort 
of  cousin  of  mine,  and  is  the  truest  friend  I 
ever  had  in  the  world.  Mr.  Vernon,"  she 
went  on,  "  whatever  relationship  yours  and 
mine  may  be,  Frederic  Stanley  was  really 
like  a  brother  to  me.  I  could  once  have  told 
him  anything ;  I  could  have  asked  his  advice 
in  anything.  But  I  shall  never  do  that  again. 
There  is  one  thing  gone  from  my  life — gone 
like  many  other  things." 

"  Why,"  said  Vernon,  "  should  his  being  a 
priest  estrange  you  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't,"  she  said.  "  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  that.  That,  in  itself,  would  rather  help 
to  unite  us.  It  is  nothing  that  he  knows  of 
that  divides  us  now.  Perhaps  you — but  let 
me  look  once  in  your  eyes  again  ;  just  look 
at  me,  please,  for  one  moment  steadily — per- 
haps you  will  know  what  it  is  some  day.  But 
about  Fred  Stanley,"  she  went  on.  "  I  should 


176  A  Romance  of 

like  you  very  much  to  be  friends  with  him ; 
I  feel  so  sure  he  could  help  you.  I  have  an 
instinct,  in  your  case ;  I  have  a  power  of  divi- 
nation which  tells  me  so." 

"  We  are  old  friends  already,"  said  Ver- 
non  ;  "  we  were  at  the  same  college  together." 

"  You  are  not  yet  friends  in  the  way  I  wish 
you  should  be,  or  I  am  sure  you  would  not 
have  spoken  of  him  as  you  did  just  this  mo- 
ment. You  call  him  depressing,  and  I  think 
I  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  You  re- 
member him  as  he  once  was,  full  of  feeling 
for  art  and  poetry,  and  full  of  interest  in 
everything  from  science  to  society ;  and  you 
misjudge  the  change  in  him." 

"In  some  men,"  said  Vernon,  "  religion 
kindles  poetry  ;  it  seems  to  have  quenched 
his.  There  is  something  now  about  him  that 
is  hard  and  prosaic." 

"If  this  is  so,  I  can  tell  you  the  meaning 
of  it.  His  right  hand  has  offended  him,  and 
he  has  cut  it  off  deliberately.  There  is  no 
one  who  naturally  is  more  alive  to  beauty,  or 
to  whatever  can  flatter  delicately  ambition, 
intellectual  pride,  or  the  senses  ;  and  under 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  177 

the  priest's  surface,  if  you  can  only  once  get 
under  it,  you  will  still  discover  the  man  of  the 
world  and  the  poet  ;  only  you  will  discover 
them  crucified.  He  has  given  his  best  as  a 
sacrifice  to  the  God  who,  he  thinks,  loved  men  ; 
his  best,  remember,  not  that  which  has  cost 
him  nothing.  You  will  detect  his  love  for  poe- 
try in  his  very  silence  about  it.  Try — to  please 
me,  try — to  make  better  friends  with  him." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Vernon,  "  both  for  your 
sake  and  for  his.  But  tell  me  this,  will  you 
— what  you  have  just  said  makes  nte  ask  you 
• — are  you  yourself  a  Catholic  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  with  decision,  "  that  is  a 
thing  I  never  could  be.  I  admire  goodness, 
and  I  hate  evil — you  might  realize  how  in- 
tensely, if  you  only  knew  my  history ;  and 
amongst  my  Catholic  friends  have  been  the 
best  people  I  have  known.  But  how,  with 
their  eyes  open,  they  can  swallow  so  much 
nonsense — I  suppose  there  is  some  explana- 
tion, but  I  confess  it  is  quite  beyond  me." 

"  What  sort  of  nonsense  ?  " 

"  Frederic  Stanley,  for  instance,  thinks  he 
could  absolve  me  from  my  sins.  I  confess  to 

12 


178  A  Romance  of 

him,  and  then  he  wipes  the  sin  out.  That  is 
his  notion.  Now  he  might  advise  me,  were  I 
able  to  take  advice,  how  to  avoid  repeating 
my  sins  ;  but  it  is  ridiculous  even  to  fancy 
that  he  could  relieve  me  of  those  I  have  com- 
mitted." 

"  It  is  quite  as  mysterious  to  me,"  said 
Vernon,  "  that  God  should  forgive  sins  at  all, 
as  that  He  should  forgive  them  through 
Stanley's  agency." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  she  sighed.  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  think  about  it.  A  God  who  is  not 
merciful  is  a  monster ;  a  God  who  is  just  and 
merciful  seems  an  impossibility.  Perhaps  af- 
ter all  there  is  no  mercy  needed  except  from 
one  human  being  to  another ;  and  as  to  what 
we  do  to  ourselves,  perhaps  that  matters 
nothing." 

Vernon  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  Do 
you  really  think  that  ?  "  he  said. 

She  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  began  to  put 
on  her  glove.  She  seemed  occupied  with  the 
beauty  of  her  own  delicate  hands.  Presently 
however,  and  not  without  hesitation,  "  I'll  tell 
you,"  she  said,  "what  I  really  do  think.  Re- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  179 

Hgion,  when  a  good  man  is  possessed  by  it, 
makes  him  unselfish,  and  eager  to  work  for 
others ;  but  it  makes  a  woman  selfish.  It 
centres  her  whole  anxiety  on  keeping  her  own 
robe  taintless ;  and  it  is  always  sending  her  to 
her  looking-glass  that  she  may  examine  her 
moral  toilette.  In  the  language  of  religion, 
this  is  female  virtue  par  excellence.  Well,  I 
can't  help  thinking — I  hope  you  won't  be 
shocked  at  me — that  there  are  other  virtues 
in  God's  eyes  more  important  than  this ;  and 
that  it  will  be  asked  us  first,  what  work  have 
your  hands  done  ?  not,  whether  we  have  kept 
them  quite  clean  in  doing  it." 

"  I  have  myself,"  said  Vernon  slowly,  and 
not  without  some  surprise,  "  been  inclined  to 
accuse  Catholicism  of  the  same  fault  in  its 
teaching.  But  the  fault — and  I  am  sure  it 
exists — is  really  not  in  Catholicism,  but  in 
certain  times  and  teachers :  perhaps,  too,  in 
certain  pupils.  What  the  Church  teaches  us 
is,  that  we  all  of  us,  women  as  well  as  men, 
have  two  duties,  one  to  ourselves  the  other 
to  humanity  ;  and  that  these  are  like  the  two 
feet  on  which  the  pilgrim  goes  to  God.  It  is 


180  A  Romance  of 

easy  to  sneer  at  the  self-regarding  virtues  ; 
but  the  Church  is  a  true  philosopher  when 
she  insists  to  man  on  their  necessity.  Unless 
we  work  for  others  we  shall  have  nothing  to 
offer  God  :  unless  we  keep  our  hearts  pure, 
we  shall  be  unable  to  offer  it." 

Towards  the  close  of  what  he  said,  he 
turned  his  eyes  to  Miss  Walters ;  and  hers, 
as  they  met  his,  suddenly  grew  moist  for  a 
moment.  Her  whole  face  was  full  of  earnest- 
ness. 

"Are  you,  then,"  she  said,  "a  Catholic?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  murmured,  "what  I 
am." 

"Just  now,"  she  said,  "you  asked  me  a 
question,  and  I  believe  I  evaded  it.  You 
asked  me  if  I  said  my  prayers.  I  am  now 
going  to  ask  the  same  question  of  you.  Do 
you?" 

"  Very  ill ;  but  still  I  do  say  them." 

"  Then  if  you  do,"  she  said,  holding  out 
her  hand  to  him,  "pray  for  me.  Now  go. 
The  clock  is  striking  eight.  I  must  get  back 
to  the  house." 

Her  hand  was  in  his.     He  held  it,  and  it 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  181 

was  not  withdrawn  from  him.  Here  again 
there  was  a  sharp  distinct  struggle  in  him. 
Should  he  do  something,  or  should  he  forbear 
from  doing  it?  Impulse  urged  him  one  way ; 
conscience,  with  clear  voice,  the  other :  and 
in  a  few  seconds  again  conscience  yielded. 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  himself  he  drew  his 
fair  companion.  She,  as  if  spell-bound,  offered 
no  resistance.  Presently  he  was  sensible  of 
the  warmth  of  her  face  close  to  him  :  a  mo- 
ment more,  and  he  had  done  what  he  said  he 
longed  to  do  ;  he  had  kissed  her  on  her  prof, 
fered  lips. 

The  touch  recalled  her  to  herself.  "  Go," 
she  said,  "go.  You  don't  know  what  it  is 
you  are  doing  to  me."  And  without  another 
look  she  was  gone. 

Vernon  found  his  way  homewards  in  a  new, 
confused  excitement.  A  wild  pleasure  was 
struggling  with  self-reproach,  and  he  hardly 
knew  the  exact  nature  of  either.  His  mind 
was  a  mystery  to  himself,  like  a  magician's 
crystal  globe.  There  seemed  to  be  in  it 
a  white  vapor  rising,  which  would  take 
presently  some  unconjectured  shape. 


A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER    III. 

"•T^HE  after-taste  of  the  above  interview  was 
••  to  Vernon  not  without  bitterness.  He 
was  beset  by  two  reflections  of  an  opposite 
nature,  and  each  in  its  own  way  annoying. 
One  of  these  was,  "  I  was  a  fool  to  kiss  her." 
The  other,  "  I  was  a  still  greater  fool  not  to 
ask  her  when  I  might  be  allowed  to  see  her 
again."  He  had  already  made  his  formal  call 
at  the  Chateau  ;  he  would  not  repeat  it  with- 
out some  sort  of  invitation  ;  and  it  might  be 
a  day,  it  might  perhaps  be  even  two,  before 
his  new  romance  could  be  proceeded  with. 
Fate,  however,  proved  more  kind  than  he 
had  anticipated.  In  the  course  of  the  morn- 
ing a  scented  note  arrived  for  him,  and  before 
he  had  even  touched  it  his  mind  had  divined 
the  authoress. 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  183 

"  Dear  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  wrote,  "  there  is  a  little  town 
among  the  mountains  here  called  St.  Paul  du  Var,  which 
my  aunt  has  seen  from  a  distance,  and  much  wishes  to 
visit.  We  have  some  thoughts  of  going  there  this  after- 
noon ;  and  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  it  would 
give  her  great  pleasure  if  you  would  come  with  us. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"CYNTHIA  WALTERS." 

Then  came  the  following  postscript : 

"  Remember,  if  you  are  to  be  ever  a  friend  of  mine, 
you  must  never  act  again  as  if  you  were  more  than  a 
friend." 

He  seized  a  pen  eagerly,  and  had  begun  to 
write  an  acceptance,  when  he  was  cut  short  by 
a  very  unwelcome  interruption.  The  mother 
had  arrived  of  his  little  crippled  protegee,  and 
was  begging  to  speak  to  him  about  her  child's 
condition.  "  Damn  her ! "  was  his  first  ex- 
clamation ;  and  then  to  the  servant  he  said, 
"  Let  her  come  to-morrow."  The  man  closed 
the  door,  but  in  another  moment  Vernon  had 
recalled  him.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  you  may  tell 
her  to  come  in  now."  A  breath  of  garlic 
announced  the  old  woman's  advent.  Vernon 
forced  a  smile  and  held  his  handkerchief  to 


184  -A  Romance  of 

his  nostrils.  The  story  was  this .  the  boot 
required  altering,  one  of  the  steel  supports 
grazed  the  poor  child's  ankle,  and  so  far  as 
Vernon  could  gather,  she  was  in  great  suffer- 
ing. "  Let  her  take  the  boot  off,  and  I  will 
come  to-morrow."  It  was  on  his  lips  to  say 
this,  and  to  say  it  with  some  impatience.  But 
he  happened  to  look  into  the  old  crone's  face, 
and  his  whole  purpose  altered.  "  I  will  be 
with  you,"  he  said,  "  in  the  course  of  the  next 
hour,  and  will  take  the  child  to  Nice  with  me, 
when  the  boot  shall  be  refitted  on  her."  Biting 
his  lips  with  irritation,  he  wrote  Miss  Walters 
an  unwilling  refusal,  and  started  presently  on 
his  distasteful  work  of  mercy.  "  I  wish,"  he 
murmured,  "  the  little  brat  was  at  the  devil. 
Here's  another  day  she's  spoilt  for  me."  By 
and  by,  however,  he  saw  a  brighter  side  to 
the  question.  "After  all,"  he  thought,  "it 
has  perhaps  turned  out  for  the  best.  Had  I 
been  with  that  girl,  I  should  have  committed 
myself  more  and  more.  I  should  have  said 
much  and  meant  nothing.  Or  else — my  God, 
what  a  brute  I  am !  I  should  have  been  using 
the  thoughts  I  wish  to  think,  as  dominoes  in 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  185 

a  game  of  love-making.  I  have  done  that 
already  this  morning.  Campbell  was  right 
about  me ! " 

Such  thoughts  as  these  kept  recurring  to 
him  throughout  the  day ;  but  they  were  not 
without  their  rivals.  The  memory  of  Miss 
Walters — her  beauty,  her  delicate  feeling, 
her  strange  ambiguous  phrases,  and  the  touch 
of  her  hand  and  lips — this  would  recur  also, 
and  make  him  again  long  for  her  company. 
His  business  with  the  child  detained  him  some 
hours  at  Nice,  and  it  was  latish  when  he  got 
home  again.  But  the  events  of  the  day  had 
done  little  to  calm  his  mind.  Prudence,  de- 
sire, and  conscience  still  stung  and  distracted 
him. 

When  he  entered  his  library,  he  found 
another  letter  awaiting  him,  in  an  envelope 
not  unlike  the  one  he  had  received  that 
morning.  But  he  was  disappointed ;  it  was 
not  from  Miss  Walters.  It  would  have  told  its 
own  authorship,  even  without  the  Duchess's 
signature.  "  I  hope,"  it  ran,  "  that  you  have 
composed  me  those  verses.  However,  it  is 
not  about  these  that  I  am  writing ;  and  I 


i86  A  Romance  of 

shall  not  dare  you  yet.  What  I  want  to  tell 
you  is  that  old  Surbiton  is  coming  over  to 
the  Cap  to-morrow  for  me,  to  give  a  proper 
blowing  up  to  the  head  gardener  at  the  Hotel 
there ;  and  as  we  all  know  how  particular  he 
is  about  his  eating,  I  want  you,  if  you  will,  to 
let  him  come  to  you  for  luncheon.  If  I  may 
give  you  a  hint,  I  will  tell  you  he  worships 
truffles.  There's  another  man  here — a  good 
sort  of  creature  in  his  way.  You  would,  per- 
haps, if  he  comes,  let  him  trespass  on  your 
hospitality  also." 

The  prospect  of  any  excitement  pleased 
Vernon  at  the  moment.  He  wrote  out  a 
telegram  to  the  Duchess,  that  was  to  be  sent 
the  first  thing  next  morning.  He  sum- 
moned his  chef,  and  had  a  long  conference 
with  him  about  a  luncheon  :  then,  thoroughly 
wearied,  he  took  himself  off  to  bed  ;  and  Lord 
Surbiton,  truffles,  and  Miss  Walters  in  turn 
engaged  his  thoughts,  as  by  dreamy  stages 
they  decomposed  into  unconsciousness. 


The  Nineteenth  Century. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

T  TE  sent  next  day  to  the  station  to  meet 
Lord  Surbiton,  who  in  due  time  ar- 
rived. He  was  not  alone,  however.  The 
other  man  mentioned  by  the  Duchess  had 
escaped  Vernon's  mind  for  the  moment ;  and 
it  was  with  no  great  feeling  of  pleasure  that 
he  discovered  it  to  be  Colonel  Stapleton. 
He  had  had  a  nodding  acquaintance  with 
the  Colonel  for  many  years  previous ;  he 
had  had  a  vague  impression  that  he  hunted, 
shot,  and  gambled ;  and  he  had  had  passing 
glimpses  of  him  at  various  London  houses. 
But  as  for  thinking  of  him  for  two  minutes 
together,  he  had  never  done  this  till  the  din- 
ner at  Monte  Carlo.  Colonel  Stapleton  since 
that  evening  had  been  a  vivid  personality  to 
Vernon,  and  a  personality  distasteful  to  him  to 


188  A  Romance  of 

a  degree  he  would  not  account  for.  He  was 
aware  that  in  some  vague  way  he  might  re- 
gard the  man  as  a  rival ;  but  his  distaste  was 
different  from  the  mere  distaste  of  jealousy. 
He  grudged  him  Miss  Walters'  acquaintance, 
not  because  there  was  much  that  could  at- 
tract her  in  him,  but  because  there  was  so 
little.  "  Brute,"  he  had  murmured  several 
times  to  himself,  "  how  I  hate  those  swim- 
ming eyes  of  his.  I  can't  bear  to  think  that 
her  eyes  should  look  at  him."  This,  how- 
ever, he  had  himself  seen  they  had  done ; 
and  whenever  he  recollected  how  often  and 
how  smilingly,  Miss  Walters  seemed  with- 
drawn from  him  to  some  mysterious  estrang- 
ing distance.  That  was  not  all,  however. 
In  the  very  process  of  this  withdrawal  she 
became  more  alluring  to  him  ;  and  he  felt 
himself  at  such  moments  grow  sick  with  a 
new  longing  for  her. 

The  Colonel's  reappearance  made  him 
again  truly  conscious  of  this  ;  and  it  required 
all  his  tact  to  prepare  to  receive  him  civilly. 
It  was  a  moment's  consolation  to  him,  as  he 
welcomed  the  two  guests,  to  find  that  Lord 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  189 

Surbiton  looked  somewhat  bored  with  his 
companion  ;  and  Vernon  at  once,  in  his  own 
mind,  taxed  the  Duchess  with  the  arrange- 
ment. Here  at  least  he  was  right.  Her 
Grace  dearly  loved  arranging. 

Matters,  however,  went  better  than  he  had 
hoped  for.  The  Colonel's  manner  was  one 
of  extreme  good  -  breeding  ;  and  his  frank 
and  evident  shyness  at  intruding  on  a  bare 
acquaintance,  at  once  made  Vernon  genial 
without  the  trouble  of  trying  to  be  so.  Pres- 
ently too,  at  luncheon,  Lord  Surbiton  lit  up 
into  vivacity.  All  he  had  wanted  hitherto 
had  been  some  subject  he  could  discuss 
strikingly  ;  and  he  soon  found,  in  the  science 
of  good  living,  one  suited  equally  to  himself 
and  his  small  audience. 

"  I  often  think,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that 
the  best  meat  I  ever  tasted  was  a  piece  of 
mutton  in  the  desert,  that  was  cooked  for  me 
by  a  young  Coptic  girl." 

Lord  Surbiton  turned  to  him  with  a  keen 
glance  in  his  eyes.  "  The  Coptic  Church," 
he  said,  "shows  a  singular  beauty,  does  it 
not,  in  its  rule  over  the  human  affections  ?  " 


190  A  Romance  of 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  when  I 
studied  its  constitution  you  could  be  mar- 
ried and  unmarried  by  it,  just  as  the  fancy 
seized  you.  You  could  be  married  when 
you  went  to  Egypt,  and  unmarried  when 
you  left  it.  What  one  gained  by  the  ar- 
rangement was  a  wider  field  of  choice." 

"  But  suppose,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "  one 
of  these  women  became  attached  to  you  ; 
might  there  not  be  some  difficulty  then  in 
getting  quit  of  a  lawful  union  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  think  so,"  said  the  Colonel, 
despatching  a  fine  truffle.  "  Besides,  dis- 
tance can  divorce  one,  as  well  as  the  Cop- 
tic Church." 

Lord  Surbiton  sighed.  "  I  regret  much," 
he  said,  "  that  I  have  hardly  set  foot  in 
Egypt ;  and  I  have  yet  been  a  constant 
wanderer.  Like  Shelley's  Alastor, 


"  '  I  have  known 

Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Baalbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem.'" 


Colonel   Stapleton  stared.     "  I,  too,  have 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  191 

been  in  the  East,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  was 
at  Jerusalem  four  years  ago." 

"  Not,"  said  Vernon,  "  as  a  religious  pil- 
grim, I  suppose  ? " 

The  Colonel  brushed  a  speck  of  dirt  from 
his  finely-shaped  finger  nail.  "  No,"  he  said, 
"but  I  went  there  with  a  remarkably  unre- 
pentant Magdalene.  She  had  had  something 
to  do  with  some  one  who  had  something  to  do 
with  India  ;  and  I  came  across  her  at  a  loose 
end  in  Cairo.  It  was  a  curious  thing  to  see 
a  woman  of  that  kind  amongst  the  sacred 
scenes  one  has  heard  about,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing.  She,  now — this  woman — what 
should  you  think  her  great  wish  was  ?  Not 
to  see  Olivet,  or  Jericho,  or  any  of  those 
places.  Upon  my  word  I  doubt  if  she  had 
ever  even  heard  of  Abraham.  What  she 
wanted  to  see  was  a  certain  dance  at  Da- 
mascus." 

Lord  Surbiton's  eyes  shot  with  a  fire  of 
intelligence,  and  his  mouth  emitted  the  ghost 
of  a  hollow  cackle.  "  I  know  the  dance  you 
mean,"  he  said.  "  I've  seen  it  myself  several 
times." 


192  A  Romance  of 

11  I  mean  this,"  said  the  Colonel ;  and  he 
gave  a  minute  description. 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Vernon,  "  that  I 
don't  myself  see  the  point  of  it." 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  the  Col- 
onel, in  a  slightly  aggrieved  tone,  "  it's  the 
most  damned  suggestive  thing  imaginable. 
Though,  upon  my  word,"  he  went  on,  "  I 
don't  know  if  it  beats  some  of  the  plays  in 
Paris.  Have  you,  Lord  Surbiton,  seen  -  -  ? " 
and  he  named  a  certain  play  and  theatre. 
"  You  have  ?  Well,  in  the  second  act,  did 
you  ever  notice  how  the  women's  dresses 
were  cut  ?  " 

Lord  Surbiton  with  regretful  interest  con- 
fessed that  he  had  not.  The  Colonel  at  great 
length  enlightened  him.  It  was  now  Lord 
Surbiton's  turn  to  impart  instruction,  and  he 
repaid  the  Colonel  in  kind  ;  it  may  also  be 
said  with  usury.  His  vivid  power  both  of  im- 
agination and  description  made  most  of  what 
he  said  quite  unfit  to  be  chronicled.  Ver- 
non observed  to  himself,  "  There  is  no  beast 
like  an  old  beast ; "  and  the  Colonel's  eyes  as 
he  listened  swam  with  attentive  moisture. 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  193 

By  and  by  they  all  adjourned  to  the  gar- 
den, where  a  table,  under  the  myrtle,  was 
set  with  wine  and  coffee.  This  turned  Lord 
Surbiton's  thoughts  into  quite  a  new  direc- 
tion, and  greatly  to  Vernon's  pleasure  he 
began  quoting  Horace.  Colonel  Stapleton 
since  he  left  Eton  had  been  no  great  stu- 
dent ;  but  the  sound  of  the  Latin  tongue 
reminded  him  of  one  classical  quotation, 
Post  prandia,  Callirrhoe.  He  had  hardly 
aired  this  small  fragment  of  learning,  when 
his  manner  changed  suddenly ;  and,  slightly 
embarrassed,  and  not  without  some  feeling  of 
delicacy,  "That  line,"  he  said,  "was  not  very 
well  chosen  by  me,  since  after  Mr.  Vernon's 
prandium,  I  have  to  call  upon  his  next-door 
neighbor." 

"  Confound  him  !"  thought  Vernon.  "  What 
the  devil  does  he  come  over  here  at  all 
for  ? " 

"  But,  Colonel,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "  you 
are  to  help  me  as  her  Grace's  emissary." 

"  I  will  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  if  our  host 
will  excuse  me  presently." 

An  idea  flashed  upon  Vernon.  "  Will  you 
13 


IQ4  -d  Romance  of 

bring  your  friends  with  you,"  he  said,  "  and 
we  will  all  see  the  hotel  garden  together  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  gay 
good-humor.  "  I  forgot  to  ask  you  if  you 
had  seen  much  of  them  since  that  evening 
when  you  carried  them  off  in  triumph  ?  I 
watched  you  as  you  drove  away,  and  a  fine 
spanking  pace  those  horses  of  yours  went, 
too." 

"  Who  are  you  talking  of  ? "  exclaimed 
Lord  Surbiton.  "  Is  it  that  lovely  Miss 
Walters  ?  By  all  means  bring  her,  if  such  a 
goddess  will  deign  to  appear  among  us." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  Colonel,  "she 
is  a  nymph  or  a  goddess.  Did  you  ever  see 
any  one  with  a  turn  of  the  neck  like  that  ? 
She's  about  the  handsomest  woman  in  Eu- 
rope— Miss  Walters  is  ;  at  least  that's  my 
opinion  ;  and  full  of  fun  when  you  only  get 
to  know  her  as  I  do.  Then,  the  dear  old 
aunt  too — what  a  capital  old  lady  that  is ! 
I've  the  greatest  regard  for  Aunt  Louisa." 

"  You,  I  suppose,"  said  Vernon,  "  have 
known  them  for  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  yes.     Why  when   I 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  195 

first  knew  Miss  Cynthia  she  used  to  sit  on 
my  knees  and  kiss  me.  But " — the  Colonel 
suddenly  started,  and  his  voice  dropped  with 
alarm — "  who's  this  coming  here  ?  It  looks 
for  all  the  world  like  the  parson." 

Vernon  turned  and  saw  it  was  Frederic 
Stanley.  "  Well,"  said  the  Colonel  hurriedly, 
"  I'm  off  to  the  Chateau,  and  in  half  an  hour 
I'll  be  back  again." 

As  for  Stanley,  he  began  with  a  quiet 
apology,  "  Your  servant,  Vernon,  never  told 
me  you  had  visitors ;  but  merely  said  that  I 
should  find  you  here  in  the  garden." 

"Sit  down,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Vernon, 
"  I'm  perfectly  charmed  to  see  you."  But  he 
felt  at  the  same  time  that  the  priest  was  out 
of  his  element ;  and  was  a  little  nervous  when 
he  made  him  known  to  Lord  Surbiton. 

The  event,  however,  set  all  his  fears  to  rest. 
Lord  Surbiton's  versatility  was  more  than  a 
fancied  gift  in  him  ;  and  on  Stanley's  appear- 
ance his  entire  demeanor  changed.  His  fur- 
rowed face  invested  itself  with  a  look  of 
thoughtful  gravity ;  and  in  his  tone  and 
gesture,  as  he  acknowledged  his  new  ao 


196  A  Romance  of 

quaintance,  there  was  the  most  perfect  mix- 
ture of  fitting  respect  and  dignity.  Vernon 
thought,  as  he  watched  him,  that  he  had 
never  seen  a  truer  gentleman.  Stanley,  too, 
in  becoming  a  priest,  had  by  no  means  for- 
gotten the  savoir  faire  of  the  guardsman  ; 
and  now  that  the  Colonel  was  gone,  the  two 
were  presently  quite  at  ease  together.  The 
picturesqueness  of  the  scene  was  such  as  to 
strike  all  of  them.  The  blue  of  the  sea  that 
glowed  through  an  arch  of  myrtles,  the  glit- 
ter of  the  glasses,  the  red  flash  of  the  Bur- 
gundy, and  the  gold  of  the  piled  up  oranges, 
not  to  mention  themselves  in  the  green 
shadow  —  all  this  to  three  graceful  scholars 
again  suggested  Horace,  and  the  calm  of  the 
Horatian  philosophy.  Lord  Surbiton  broke 
out  into  several  apt  quotations,  which  both 
the  others  would  in  turn  either  cap  or  con- 
tinue ;  and  he  exclaimed  presently,  with  all 
his  pomp  of  utterance,  "  If  every  pleasure,  as 
Epicurus  said  it  did,  springs  somehow  or 
other  from  some  satisfaction  of  the  senses,  it 
is  poetry,  it  is  literature  alone,  that  makes 
them  last  a  lifetime." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  197 

"  Epicurus,"  said  Stanley,  "  would,  I  think, 
have  admitted  that.  He  was  the  wisest,  in 
his  generation,  of  all  the  old  philosophers. 
That  sounds  no  doubt  an  odd  opinion  for  a 
priest ;  but  what  I  mean  by  it  is  this  :  If  we 
take  this  life  by  itself,  as  a  thing  to  be  lived 
and  done  with,  Epicurus  saw  most  clearly  why 
and  how  to  make  the  best  of  it :  and  the  ex- 
treme popularity  of  Horace  is  a  striking  proof 
of  this." 

"True,"  said  Lord  Surbiton.  "There  is 
something,  to  me,  much  finer  in  the  Epicu- 
rean calm  than  in  the  Stoic  fortitude.  The 
man  who  is  stern,  is  repressing  his  creation ; 
the  man  who  is  calm  has  killed  it.  Think 
how  the  two  schools  looked  on  death,  for  in- 
stance. The  Stoic  looked  on  it  with  a  de- 
fiant frown ;  by  the  act  of  an  iron  will  he  re- 
solved not  to  wince  at  it.  He  braved  it — " 
and  here  in  Lord  Surbiton's  eyes  came  a 
slight  flash  of  the  Devil — "  as  a  clumsy  but 
virtuous  peasant  might  brave  some  wicked 
nobleman.  But  the  Epicurean  had  no  need 
of  resolves,  or  of  making  heroic  faces.  He 
met  death  as  Metternich  met  Napoleon,  with 


198  A  Romance  of 

the  reserved  grace  of  a  man  who  is  the 
superior  in  all  but  power,  and  who  yet  gives 
power  its  due.  Horace,  as  you  say,  Mr. 
Stanley,  is  a  proof  of  this.  His  odes  show  us 
more  clearly  than  anything  the  pathetic  dig- 
nity, the  politely -concealed  contempt,  the 
easy  self-possession,  and  the  superb  high 
breeding  with  which  the  Epicurean  poet 
greeted  and  treated  death." 

"  Whatever  we  think,"  said  Stanley,  "about 
the  religious  view  of  the  matter,  that  sort  of 
philosophy  is  now  no  longer  possible." 

"  Goethe's  mother,"  said  Vernon,  "found 
it  so  ;  and  so  did  our  Charles  the  Second." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Stanley,  "  not  of 
death  then,  but  of  life.  What  I  meant  was 
that  a  life  of  the  proudest  calm,  though  en- 
riched with  all  the  pleasures  that  can  stimu- 
late mind  or  body,  is  an  ideal  that  now  no 
man  of  insight  can  be  satisfied  with.  We 
hear  much,  it  is  true,  about  the  sublime  calm 
of  Goethe.  I  have  almost  thought  myself 
that  the  sublime  was  very  near  the  ridiculous. 
But  even  were  that  not  so,  we  are  in  Goethe's 
age  no  longer.  There  is  a  new  spirit  now 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  199 

abroad  in  the  world  ;  we  are  becoming  roused 
to  the  sense  of  a  new  duty.  I  am  speaking 
of  the  conception  of  progress,  and  the  duty  of 
each  one  of  us  to  humanity.  Your  Epicurean 
with  his  calm,  in  the  face  of  a  thought  like 
that,  is  like  a  man  who  sits  on  his  luggage 
when  his  train  is  leaving  the  station." 

"  Surely,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  with  a  smile 
of  surprised  courtesy,  "  the  Catholic  Church 
generally  does  not  regard  progress  so  com- 
placently :  and  humanity  as  an  object  of  wor- 
ship I  should  have  conceived  in  her  eyes  to  be 
little  better  than  Antichrist." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  last  words  of  an 
expelled  Pope  on  his  death-bed,  and  the  an- 
swer his  attendants  made  him  ?  '  Because  I 
have  loved  righteousness  and  hated  iniqui- 
ty, therefore  I  die  in  exile.'  '  Because  God 
has  given  thee  the  heathen  for  thine  inherit- 
ance, and  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  for 
thy  possession,  Vicar  of  Christ,  in  exile  thou 
canst  not  die.'  Well,  in  the  same  way  one 
may  speak  of  the  Church  always.  She  cannot 
be  outside  progress,  because  she  herself  is 
everywhere.  What  she  rejects  in  the  spirit 


2OO  A  Romance  of 

of  Modern  Secularism  is  not  its  truths,  but 
its  false  and  delirious  expression  of  them. 
The  religion  of  humanity,  the  religion  of 
human  progress  —  these  are  really  implicit 
parts  of  her  system  ;  and  it  is  she  alone  that 
can  give  them  a  reasoned  meaning.  Many 
people,  we  know,  think  them  to  be  new  reve- 
lations. Suppose  we  call  them  so.  The  life 
of  the  Church  is  a  series  of  new  revelations. 
She  is  human  nature  perpetually  unfolding 
itself." 

"  I  should  have  conceived,"  said  Lord  Sur- 
biton,  "  that  the  Catholic  type  of  sanctity  was 
a  thing  fixed  forever,  and  that  it  could  make 
no  terms  with  progress." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Stanley,  "  in  one  sense, 
but  it  is  not  true  in  another ;  for  change  and 
fixity  are  not  always  incompatible.  The  type 
of  a  perfect  soldier  may  always  remain  the 
same ;  but  it  includes  a  change  of  conduct 
according  to  changed  positions.  His  part 
may  be  sometimes  active  ;  sometimes  a  mute 
vigilance :  and  it  is  the  same  with  the  saint, 
in  the  world's  changing  ages.  For  me  I  fully 
recognize  that  we  are  now  being  swept  on- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  201 

wards  into  an  era  of  new  duties,  and  that  Al- 
mighty God  may  be  demanding  a  larger  ser- 
vice from  us." 

"  I,  too,"  said  Lord  Surbiton,  "can  tell  that 
a  change  is  coming.  You  and  Vernon  will 
see  it ;  but  it  will  find  the  eyes  of  me  and  my 
generation  closed."  He  was  silent  for  a  minute 
or  two,  whilst  he  lighted  a  large  cigar.  "  I  am 
not  a  Catholic,  Mr.  Stanley,"  he  resumed, 
"  but  I  am  a  student  of  human  history ;  and 
putting  our  obvious  differences  aside,  my  view 
of  the  Church  has  been  yours.  I  am  glad  to 
find  that  I  have  so  orthodox  an  authority  for 
it.  She  has  seemed  to  me  to  have  embraced, 
and  to  have  been  the  only  cause  that  has  done 
so,  all  that  the  most  many-sided  genius  ever 
could  or  can  be  busy  with.  She  was  at  once 
a  perfect  saint,  and  a  perfect  woman  of  the 
world,  and  she  would  understand  all  man's 
lowest  impulse,  and  yet  still  forever  lead  him 
up  to  the  highest.  Me,"  he  went  on  sighing, 
"she  has  taught  at  least  one  lesson — that  there 
is  little  in  this  world  worth  a  regret  on  los- 
ing it." 

"You  are  the  last  person,  my  Lord,"  said 


2O2  A  Romance  of 

Stanley  with  politeness,  "one  could  expect  to 
hear  say  that.  You  have  fame,  position,  for- 
tune— all  that  the  world  can  give  you." 

"  It  is  these  blessings,"  said  Lord  Surbiton, 
"that  have  made  my  heart  so  teachable.  It 
may  be  wisdom  to  despise  the  world ;  but  to 
despise  it  thoroughly  you  must  first  possess 
it." 

These  words  were  uttered  with  a  ghastly 
kind  of  impressiveness,  and  received  the  re- 
ward they  wanted — a  moment's  complete 
silence.  This  was  ended  presently  by  sounds 
of  a  new  quality.  The  music  of  female  voices 
was  suddenly  heard  approaching,  and  mixed 
with  them  came  the  Colonel's  crackling 
laughter. 

Vernon's  heart  had  begun  to  beat  quickly. 
He  turned  his  head,  and  there  was  the  group 
before  him. 

"You  see,"  said  Lady  Walters,  "we  have 
come  to  return  your  visit ;  and  we  hope  you 
will  show  us  your  villa,  as  well  as  her  Grace's 
gardens."  But  Vernon  had  little  time  for 
thinking  of  Lady  Walters.  Her  niece  was 
there,  standing  side  by  side  with  the  Colonel. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  203 

She  had  just,  as  she  said  presently,  been 
driving  her  pair  of  ponies  ;  and  she  still  had 
on  a  tight-fitting  cloth  dress,  beneath  which 
protruded  the  top  of  a  varnished  boot.  The 
slightly  masculine  air  which  her  present  cos- 
tume gave  her,  made  a  piquant  mixture  with 
her  natural  grace  and  softness.  It  seemed  to 
hint  to  Vernon  of  some  new  side  to  her  char- 
acter ;  and  it  touched  him,  he  knew  not  why, 
with  a  quick  twinge  of  jealousy.  The  way 
she  greeted  him  did  not  dispel  this  feeling. 
She  was  perfectly  frank  and  friendly ;  she  was 
indeed  too  frank.  He  sought  in  vain  from 
either  her  eye  or  hand  any  sign  of  their  strange, 
secret  intimacy.  "  Good  heavens,"  he  thought, 
"and  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I  kissed  her!" 
In  an  instant,  however,  he  was  distracted 
by  another  scene  enacting  itself.  Stanley, 
hearing  strangers  approaching,  had  withdrawn 
to  a  little  distance.  He  had  not  even  heard 
that  the  Walters  were  at  the  Cap  de  Juan; 
and  he  now  first  learned  the  fact  by  finding 
them  there  facing  him.  Vernon  narrowly 
watched  Miss  Walters,  as  the  meeting  was 
taking  place  :  and  he  saw  how  truly  she  had 


204  A  Romance  of 

spoken  when  she  called  Stanley  a  brother,  "  I 
had  been  meaning,"  she  said,  "  to  have  sent  you 
a  note  yesterday ;  but  now  to-night  you  must 
come — won't  you — and  dine  with  us."  Stanley 
assented,  and  directly  after  withdrew  himself. 
The  next  step  with  the  others  was  now  to 
see  Vernon's  villa  ;  and  Vernon  in  showing  it 
began  to  feel  more  prosperous.  The  Colonel, 
it  is  true,  showed  a  wish  to  engross  Miss  Wal- 
ters ;  but  events  at  present  would  often  stand 
in  his  way.  She  was  anxious  to  be  told  about 
various  books  and  pictures,  and  on  these  points 
she  could  only  appeal  to  Vernon.  Indeed  for 
a  good  five  minutes  he  was  almost  t&te-h-tete 
with  her,  as  they  turned  over  together  a  port- 
folio of  old  engravings.  During  this  time 
their  eyes  met  once  ;  and  for  a  moment  hers 
softened  as  if  in  recognition  of  their  intimacy. 
Directly  after,  however,  came  an  odor  of  ess. 
bouquet,  and  looking  up,  Vernon  saw  the 
Colonel  behind  them.  "  Fine  engravings," 
said  the  latter,  "some  of  those,  I  should 
think."  And  then  in  an  undertone,  when 
Miss  Walters'  back  was  turned,  "  And  devil- 
ish free,  too,  a  lot  of  those  old  plates  are."  He 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  205 

said  this  with  a  smile,  and  a  glance  at  the 
closed  portfolio. 

Vernon  answered  him  with  extreme  cold- 
ness. "  There  is  nothing,  you  may  be  sure, 
that  is  free  in  that  portfolio ;  or  I  should  not 
have  been  showing  it  to  Miss  Walters."  But 
the  Colonel  was  quite  unwounded.  He  only 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  to  see  that  they 
were  unobserved,  and  pulled  from  his  pocket 
a  small  morocco  book  with  a  lock  to  it.  "  If 
you  want,"  he  said,  "  to  see  modern  art,  just 
look  into  that.  I  got  it  at  Nice  this  morning." 
Vernon  looked,  but  it  was  for  an  instant  only. 
The  contents  were  a  series  of  photographs, 
such  as  in  England  the  police  would  seize 
upon ;  and  b  a  gave  it  back,  with  a  curt  "  Thank 
you,"  to  the  Colonel. 

The  above  incident,  so  far  as  Vernon's 
peace  was  concerned,  was  the  worst  prepara- 
tion possible  for  what  was  about  to  follow. 
The  party  presently  set  out  for  the  hotel 
gardens,  and  during  the  short  walk  thither 
kept  more  or  less  together.  The  head  gar- 
dener was  summoned ;  the  directions  of  the 
Duchess  were  given,  and  the  little  group  was 


206  A  Romance  of 

on  the  point  of  moving  on  again.  Vernon 
looked  towards  Miss  Walters,  hoping  she 
might  fall  behind  with  him.  A  look  was 
enough ;  he  did  not  repeat  it ;  in  an  instant 
he  felt  what  had  happened  ;  she  was  attached 
to  Colonel  Stapleton.  Step  by  step  did  these 
two  separate  themselves,  letting  the  others 
go  on  ahead  of  them,  and  pausing  at  times 
on  pretence  of  examining  something,  that 
they  might  keep  or  increase  their  distance. 
Vernon's  heart  was  full  of  pain  and  bitter- 
ness, and  he  walked  almost  silent  by  Lady 
Walters  and  Lord  Surbiton.  Suddenly  a 
suspicion  was  caused  by  the  sight  of  another 
party,  which  made  his  lordship  exclaim,  "  It's 
lucky  that  her  Grace  isn't  here."  The  tres- 
passers proved  to  be  a  certain  set  from  Nice, 
amongst  whom  Vernon  recognized  a  few  of 
his  own  acquaintance.  Of  this  number  was 
a  certain  Mrs.  Crane,  one  of  the  fairest  and 
freest  of  the  married  women  of  London.  She 
not  only  knew  Vernon,  but  his  companions 
also ;  and  quitting  her  own  party  she  ad- 
vanced to  meet  the  others,  whom  a  halt  had 
again  united. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  207 

"I'm  dying,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "to  get  out 
on  that  reef  or  rock  there,  but  the  people  I'm 
with  have  not  got  a  spark  of  enterprise  ;  and 
my  boots  have  such  high  heels  that  I  daren't 
venture  alone." 

"  Let  me  be  your  guide,"  said  Vernon,  "  I 
know  the  way  perfectly."  And  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  her  with  a  look  of  shallow  tenderness. 

"I,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "should  like  to 
go  there  too.  I  have  often  watched  those 
rocks  and  wished  I  could  get  out  to  them." 

The  instant  she  spoke  Vernon  turned 
sharp  round  to  her.  Mrs.  Crane  noticed  the 
movement.  But  the  impulses  of  the  jealous 
reverse  themselves  in  a  flash  of  lightning,  and 
the  eager  gesture  was  followed  by  the  coldest 
of  tones.  "  The  walk  is  perfectly  easy/'  he 
said,  "  if  Colonel  Stapleton  will  give  you  a 
hand  now  and  then.  I  have  been  there  my- 
self continually." 

Both  the  elders  declined  so  rough  a  pil- 
grimage, and  the  two  younger  couples  set  off 
by  themselves,  Miss  Walters  still  with  the 
Colonel,  and  Vernon  with  Mrs.  Crane. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  that  lady  pres- 


208  A  Romance  cf 

ently,  "  I've  not  seen  you  since  that  charming 
Sunday  last  summer,  when  we  went  down  to- 
gether on  the  drag  to  Maidenhead.  At  least 
I  have  seen  you,  though  you  were  far  too 
well  occupied  to  take  any  notice  of  me.  I 
saw  you  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  I  saw,  too,  who 
it  was  you  were  talking  to.  However,"  she 
added,  as  she  glanced  behind  her  towards  Miss 
Walters,  "  you've  a  prettier  one  now  to  play 
with — that  is,  if  Colonel  Jack  will  allow  you." 

"What  has  he  got  to  do  with  it?"  said 
Vernon,  a  little  brusquely. 

"  What  has  not  he  ?  There  he  is  now,  side 
by  side  with  her.  My  good  friend,  don't  you 
wish  you  were  in  the  shoes  of  one  of  them  ?  " 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  can't 
say  I  do.  If  ever  I  want  Miss  Walters,  she 
is  my  next-door  neighbor,  so  I  could  well 
spare  her  for  an  hour  or  two,  even  if  all  my 
heart  were  set  on  her.  Besides,  in  the  present 
moment,  how  could  I  even  wish  to  better 
myself?  You're  very  pretty,  and  I'm  very 
agreeable ;  and  when  there's  nobody  better 
to  hand,  you  know  quite  well  that  you  have  a 
caprice  for  me." 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  209 

Love  and  its  kindred  feelings  can  make  the 
wisest  men  like  children,  and  when  it  does  not 
make  them  children  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word,  it  will  often  make  them  childish  in  the 
worst.  It  can  not  only  bring  back  the  sim- 
plicity, but  also  the  tempers  of  the  nursery. 
Of  these  last,  one  of  the  least  lovely  forms  is 
a  sullenness  towards  one  person,  expressed  by 
effusion  towards  another.  It  was  this  form 
of  temper  which  now  overcame  Vernon.  He 
could  not  spend  his  day  in  making  love  to 
Miss  Walters,  so  he  resolved  to  spend  it  in 
making  love  to  Mrs.  Crane.  Nor  was  Mrs. 
Crane  in  the  least  displeased  at  this.  It  was 
strictly  true  that,  amongst  a  hundred  other 
caprices,  she  had  one  that  she  could  quite 
distinguish  for  Vernon ;  and  as  all  that  she 
demanded  of  most  of  her  male  friends  was, 
not  that  their  devotion  should  be  constant, 
but  only  that  it  should  recur  on  occasions,  no 
jealousy  of  a  rival  made  her  in  the  least  cold 
or  difficile.  Vernon  and  she  were  then  soon 
on  the  tenderest  terms,  as  they  had  often  been, 
before  for  five  or  six  hours  together ;  and  by 
the  time  they  had  reached  the  special  rock  they 
14 


2io  A  Romance  of 

were  making  for,  they  were  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced in  a  very  unmasked  flirtation.  This 
was  just  what  Vernon  in  his  present  mood 
wished  for ;  and  when  the  two  others  joined 
them,  and  the  four  sat  down  together,  he 
hoped  that  his  conduct  would  not  escape 
Miss  Walters.  This  was  a  child's  bit  of 
temper,  but  he  had  a  man's  self-possession 
in  showing  it.  He  betrayed  no  sullenness 
to  the  person  he  wished  to  wound  ;  he  ad- 
dressed her  instead  with  an  easy  genial  in- 
difference, which  he  knew  would  be  more 
effective  ;  and  an  intuitive  sense  thrilled  him 
that  each  of  his  smiles  was  freezing  her. 

At  first  when  she  looked  about  her  she  was 
lost  in  the  lovely  prospect.  He  could  see  how 
its  beauty  sank  into  her,  like  a  stone  into  a 
clear  well.  "  What  a  contrast,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  between  that  cliff  and  the  water  !  How  one 
little  plume  of  foam  tosses  over  the  sunken 
rock!"  And  she  glanced  round  at  the  others 
— at  last,  shyly  at  Vernon. 

"  Yes,  beautiful,"  he  said  civilly,  with  a 
slight  fatuous  laugh.  "It's  all  as  charming 
as  can  be  ;  though,  for  my  own  part,  the  love 


The  "Nineteenth  Century.  211 

of  scenery  Is  one  of  the  many  thfngs  I  have 
outlived,  I  think." 

Mrs.  Crane  patted  him  with  her  pretty 
gloved  hand,  and  said,  "  You  tell  that  to  your 
grandmother.  Don't  flatter  yourself,  my  dear 
man,  that  you've  outlived  the  sweets  of  life 
yet." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Vernon,  as  he  looked 
at  her ;  "  for  I  have  not  outlived  you." 

Mrs.  Crane  acknowledged  the  compliment 
with  an  impertinent  little  grimace,  that  became 
her  admirably  ;  and  then  turning  sharp  to  the 
Colonel,  she  made  an  observation  on  a  slight 
red  mark  on  his  temple.  "  What  on  earth  have 
you  been  up  to?"  she  said.  "  Has  Colonel 
Jack  been  fighting?" 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  cried  the  Colonel,  "it  was 
something  rather  like  it.  What  made  the  mark 
was  a  pistol  bullet."  This  announcement 
created  the  right  surprise,  but  the  Colonel 
plainly  was  talking  with  no  eye  to  effect ;  nor 
was  there  the  least  bravado  in  the  way  in 
which  he  told  his  story.  He  had  been  sleep- 
ing, it  appeared,  the  preceding  night  at  Nice, 
and  arriving  late  there  from  Monte  Carlo,  he 


212  A  Romance  of 

had  walked  to  his  hotel  from  the  station.  In 
a  lonely  place  he  had  been  beset  by  two  men, 
it  seemed  with  the  intent  of  robbing  him. 
"  One  of  the  fellows,"  he  said,  "a  little  chap, 
I  knocked  down  in  a  moment.  The  other 
fired  a  pistol  at  me  ;  and  then  not  seeing  me 
fall,  he  bolted.  There  have  been  several  cases 
of  the  same  sort  this  winter  ;  and  for  the 
future,"  he  went  on,  producing  a  revolver,  "  I 
shall  not  go  out  late  without  this." 

The  weapon  was  a  small  one,  finely  chased 
with  silver,  and  Mrs.  Crane  inquired  if  it  would 
really  kill  a  man. 

"  It's  killed  two  men  already,"  said  the 
Colonel.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I  should 
have  been  a  dead  dog  at  Alexandria  five  years 
ago." 

The  tone  of  the  speaker  was  in  all  this  so 
modest,  that  Vernon  was  conscious  of  a  kind 
of  grudging  respect  for  him  ;  but  what  most 
amused  him  was  the  aspect  of  Miss  Walters. 
She  was  staring  at  the  Colonel,  not  with  the 
least  interest  or  anxiety,  but  simply  as  if  his 
face  fascinated  her.  As  for  him,  he  had  not 
the  least  wish  to  be  serious ;  and  his  next  ob- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  213 

servation  showed  it.  "  Bless  me,  Miss  Cyn- 
thia," he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  her  arm 
familiarly,  "  what  a  knowing  coat  you've  got 
on  to-day.  Just  turn  my  way  and  let  me  look 
at  it.  How  many  inches  round  in  the  waist 
does  that  make  you  ?  " 

She  at  once  roused  herself,  and  with  a 
smile  and  a  frown  together,  "  Two  inches 
more,"  she  said,  "  than  I  should  be  without 
it." 

There  was  nothing  in  her  manner  that 
could  be  set  down  as  coquetry ;  yet  Vernon, 
whose  perceptions  were  in  a  supersensitive 
state,  detected  something  in  it  that  made  him 
turn  sharp  away  from  her.  Presently  they  all 
rose,  and  began  to  set  about  returning. 

Mrs.  Crane,  though  she  was  not  piqued  on 
account  of  Miss  Walters,  was  far  too  true  a 
woman  to  be  able  to  keep  silent  about  her ; 
and  as  she  and  Vernon  were  descending  the 
rocks  together,  she  again  opened  the  subject. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me  honestly 
how  you  like  her." 

"  I  hardly  know  her,"  said  Vernon  dryly. 

"  Exactly ;  and    I  doubt  if  you  ever  will. 


214  A  Romance  of 

I've  seen  her  at  Florence  before  now;  and 
all  the  foreigners  at  first  sight  were  in  love 
with  her.  But  it  was  at  first  sight  only.  She's 
as  cold  as  ice  afterwards.  Every  man  I've 
heard  speak  of  her  has  told  me  the  same 
story." 

"  That  fellow,  Stapleton,"  said  Vernon, 
"  seems  to  get  on  well  enough  with  her." 

Mrs.  Crane  broke  out  into  a  little  malicious 
laugh.  "  My  dear  man,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  all 
along  you  were  thinking  so.  I  can  see  when 
a  man's  jealous  as  plainly  as  what  his  necktie 
is.  But  you  must  be  a  goose  if  you're  jealous 
of  fat  Jack  Stapleton.  He  was  a  dangerous 
man  once,  I  grant  you ;  but  if  he  wants  any 
conquests  now,  he  has  to  go  rather  farthei 
afield  for  them  :  and  from  my  own  little  ob- 
servations at  Monte  Carlo,  I  suspect  he  goes 
farther  afield  pretty  often.  Besides,  as  for  that 
girl  there,  he  might  just  as  well  be  her  elder 
brother  or  her  uncle.  He  must  have  grown 
tired  of  kissing  her  before  she  was  well  out 
of  the  nursery.  Just  listen  now,  how  she 
chatters  to  him.  That's  not  the  tone  of  a 
lover." 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  215 

Miss  Walters'  voice,  it  is  true,  was  at  that 
moment  raised  slightly.  She  was  preparing 
to  cross  the  last  piece  of  broken  ground,  and 
Vernon  distinctly  heard  her,  as  she  declined 
the  Colonel's  assistance.  "  Thank  you,"  she 
said,  "  I  can  get  on  quite  well  by  myself. 
Really,  my  dear  Jack,  there's  no  need  for  you 
to  be  so  affectionate." 

Vernon  knew  not  why,  but  he  uttered  an 
inaudible  oath  to  himself. 

When  they  regained  the  gardens,  Mrs. 
Crane  found  her  own  party  had  flown,  and 
Lady  Walters  announced  with  a  smile  that 
Lord  Surbiton  had  done  so  likewise.  He 
had  been  carried  off  by  a  fascinating  Polish 
countess.  "  Why,  it's  the  very  woman,"  said 
Mrs.  Crane,  "  that  my  own  husband's  in  love 
with.  And  of  course  he's  gone  off  too.  Now 
isn't  that  like  a  husband  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Walters,  "  you 
needn't  put  yourself  out.  You  know  the 
train  that  they  are  going  by,  and  I  said  that 
I  would  send  you  in  our  carriage  to  the  sta- 
tion. Or  if  you  like  to  wait  for  dinner,  we 
should  be  very  happy  to  see  you.  These 


216  A  Romance  of 

gentlemen,  too,  in  case  they  have  no  other 
designs  for  themselves — we  should  be  ex- 
ceedingly glad  if  they  would  enliven  us  with 
their  company." 

She  looked  round  with  an  inquiry  at  Ver- 
non  and  Colonel  Stapleton.  The  latter  at 
once  assented  ;  Vernon  declined,  having  bus- 
iness, he  said,  that  evening.  "  Very  well 
then,"  smiled  Lady  Walters,  "  we  will  hope 
for  you  at  some  other  time."  He  trusted 
that  Miss  Walters  would  take  notice  of  this 
refusal ;  but  he  found  she  was  standing  even 
nearer  to  him  than  he  thought  she  was. 
The  branch  of  a  rose-tree  had  caught  itself 
in  her  hat,  and  he  heard  her,  in  a  constrained 
voice,  asking  him  if  he  would  disengage  it 
for  her.  He  was  startled  by  her  tone,  and 
still  more  by  the  look  she  gave  him.  There 
was  that  something  in  both  of  them,  timid, 
piteous,  and  appealing.  She  reminded  him 
of  some  wounded  animal.  He  was  in  no 
mood,  however,  to  be  moved  by  impressions 
of  this  kind.  He  did  the  service  she  asked 
of  him  with  the  same  easy  politeness  as  here- 
tofore ;  but  when  in  the  process,  by  accident, 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  217 

his  hand  touched  her  shoulder,  he  recoiled 
from  it  as  if  he  had  touched  hot  iron. 

He  discovered  the  moment  after,  that  Mrs. 
Crane  as  well  as  himself  had  declined  Lady 
Walters'  invitation  ;  and  a  new  inspiration 
seized  him.  "  Why  should  Lady  Walters," 
he  said,  "be  at  the  trouble  of  having  her 
horses  out  ?  I  can  see  Mrs.  Crane  to  the 
station,  if  she  has  no  objection  to  waiting 
here." 

Mrs.  Crane's  eyes  flashed  with  a  pleased 
intelligence ;  and  the  matter  was  so  settled. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "we 
may  as  well  be  going  back  ! "  And  the  par- 
ties prepared  to  separate.  As  she  took 
leave  of  Vernon,  her  voice  seemed  still  un- 
natural, "  And  are  you  never"  she  whispered, 
" coming  to  see  me  again?"  This  was  not, 
however,  the  last  thing  he  heard  of  her  ;  for 
turning  to  her  aunt  she  said,  "  We  may  as 
well  dine  punctually,  as  Frederic  Stanley 
does  not  like  late  hours."  These  simple 
words  had  a  sudden  effect  in  one  quarter. 
Colonel  Stapleton  with  a  frown  drew  Miss 
Walters  apart  a  little  ;  his  face  changed ;  he 


218  A  Romance  of 

had  evidently  lost  command  of  himself. 
"  What ! "  he  exclaimed  in  an  undertone, 
"and  is  Mr.  Stanley  going  to  dine  with 
you?" 

"  He  is,"  she  answered  coldly.  "  Do  you 
happen  to  have  any  objection  ?  " 

"  Objection  ! "  cried  the  Colonel,  still  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "  My  dear  girl,  are  you 
an  utter,  absolute  idiot  ?  What  the  devil's 
the  good  of  my  coming,  if  you've  got  that 
damned  parson  with  you  ?  " 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  2ig 


CHAPTER  V. 

said  Vernon  to  Mrs.  Crane,  "  we 
will  come  in  and  have  some  tea  to- 
gether ;  and  you  must  give  your  own  orders 
as  to  when  you  will  have  the  carriage." 

Mrs.  Crane  was  a  woman  who,  as  had  once 
been  said  of  her,  could  kiss  with  her  eyes  al- 
most as  unequivocally  as  with  her  lips.  Sev- 
eral times  during  the  afternoon  she  had  al- 
ready done  this  with  the  former ;  and  they 
had  not  many  moments  been  left  alone  with 
the  tea-things  before  she  repeated  the  opera- 
tion with  the  latter.  She  was  lying  back  in 
the  depths  of  an  easy-chair,  and,  seated  on 
one  of  its  arms,  Vernon  was  bending  over 
her. 

"If  you  were  nice,"  she  said  presently, 
"you'd  ask  me  to  stop  and  dine  with  you.  If 


22O  A  Romance  of 

the  others  wouldn't  wait  for  me,  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  go  hurrying  after  them." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Vernon,  still  smiling 
down  at  her. 

She  pulled  a  peacock's  feather  from  a  vase 
beside  her,  and  began  to  touch  his  face  with 
it.  As  she  continued  looking  at  him,  he  felt 
he  was  becoming  magnetized.  His  face  was 
drawn  down  to  hers,  and  once  more  he  kissed 
her.  "  Naughty  boy  !  "  she  murmured,  pat- 
ting his  cheek  tenderly.  Vernon  now  felt  as 
if  a  net  had  been  thrown  over  him — a  net  of 
the  coarsest  kind,  and  yet  he  could  not  escape 
from  it.  "  Don't  you  think  you're  a  naughty 
boy  ?  "  she  went  on  after  a  moment's  silence ; 
and  then  contemplating  him,  she  uttered  his 
Christian  name.  "  Ralph,"  she  said  ;  "that's 
what  you're  called,  isn't  it  ?  Ralph — little 
Ralphie — is  that  what  Miss  Walters  calls 
you?" 

A  shadow  at  this  juncture  flitted  across 
the  window.  Vernon  sprang  from  his  seat, 
Mrs.  Crane  recovered  herself  like  an  expert, 
and  her  husband,  a  few  seconds  after,  was 
ushered  into  the  library,  He  was  a  small, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  221 

dissipated-looking  man,  and  was  apparently 
in  very  bad  humor.  "  So  here,"  he  said  to 
his  wife,  after  a  word  or  two  for  form's  sake 
to  Vernon,  "  so  here  you  are,  are  you  ?  Why 
the  deuce  you  must  go  off  to  those  rocks  is 
more  than  I  can  tell.  We've  returned  this 
way,  which  we  had  not  meant  to  have  done  ; 
so  you  can  come  home  with  us  after  all,  and 
your  friends  need  not  be  at  the  trouble  of 
sending  you.  It's  lucky  for  you,  Mr.  Ver- 
non," he  went  on,  with  what  was  meant  to  be 
pleasantry,  "that  you've  not  got  a  wife. 
They  lead  one  a  pretty  dance,  I  can  tell 
you." 

Mrs.  Crane  and  her  husband  were  gone. 
Vernon  clasped  his  hands  on  his  forehead, 
he  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  hurrying 
upstairs  to  his  bedroom  washed  his  face  in 
cold  water. 

"  Oh !  that  beast  of  a  woman,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  and  more  beast  I  to  talk  to  her." 

The  relief  he  felt,  however,  was  only  com- 
parative. The  reflections  he  was  left  with 
were  composed  of  many  disquietudes.  His 
thoughts  first  went  straying  towards  the 


222  A  Romance  of 

Chateau  St.  John  ;  and  he  was  restless  with 
conjectures  as  to  what  was  now  passing  there. 
For  a  moment  he  repented  that  he  had  to 
refuse  the  invitation  to  dinner  ;  but  he  was 
still  aching  with  jealousy,  and  so  this  feeling 
was  only  momentary.  Had  he  been  there, 
however,  his  mind  might  have  been  some- 
what tranquillized.  The  Colonel's  behavior 
at  dinner  was  subdued,  indeed  almost  sheep- 
ish ;  and  he  left  directly  afterwards,  by  the 
earliest  train  available.  As  for  Miss  Walters, 
her  ways  had  had  a  sad  touching  softness  in 
them.  She  had  done  her  best  to  harmonize 
the  Colonel  and  Frederic  Stanley  ;  and  find- 
ing the  former  quite  unresponsive,  had  given 
most  of  her  conversation  to  the  latter. 

The  Colonel's  departure,  however,  pro- 
duced a  strange  effect  on  her.  She  all  of  a 
sudden  became  constrained  with  Stanley,  in- 
stead of,  what  might  have  seemed  natural, 
becoming  more  at  home  with  him.  She  did 
not,  it  is  true,  relapse  into  reserve  or  silence ; 
on  the  contrary,  she  talked  on  with  a  kind  of 
nervous  persistency,  and  seemed  anxious  to 
keep  her  aunt  a  party  to  the  conversation. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  223 

But  her  ease  of  manner  had  altogether  quit- 
ted her,  and  was  replaced  by  a  liveliness  that 
sometimes  verged  on  flippancy.  Stanley, 
though  not  on  the  outlook  for  any  behavior 
of  this  kind,  still  could  not  fail  to  be  slightly 
struck  with  it ;  but  it  was  not  till  later  in  the 
evening  that  he  gave  any  serious  thought  to 
the  matter.  By  and  by,  however,  as  her 
custom  was,  Lady  Walters  went  to  sleep  by 
the  tea-table  ;  and  her  niece,  whose  boudoir 
opened  out  of  the  drawing-room,  took  Stan- 
ley to  inspect  it  and  its  contents.  It  was 
pretty  enough,  but  as  yet  was  in  some  con- 
fusion, though  even  the  confusion  was  not 
without  signs  of  taste  in  it,  especially  when 
seen,  as  now,  under  a  lamp  with  a  shade  of 
rose-color.  Some  rich  Oriental  stuffs  had 
been  thrown  over  ugly  sofas  ;  some  flowers 
and  palms  had  been  already  arranged  effec- 
tively ;  there  was  an  easel  in  one  corner,  with 
a  picture  of  some  sort  resting  on  it,  and  every 
table  was  littered  with  books  and  bits  of  bric- 
a-brac.  It  was  on  the  books  that  Stanley's 
attention  centred.  He  was  far  too  wise  a  man 
to  be  always,  or  even  often,  moralizing,  or  to 


224  A  Romance  of 

think  he  advanced  his  faith  by  referring  to  its 
claims  perpetually.  None  the  less,  however, 
was  it  a  part  of  his  very  life ;  by  a  process  he 
was  often  unconscious  of,  it  colored  his  view 
of  everything  ;  and  his  zeal  for  souls,  though 
many  might  see  no  trace  of  it,  was  still  and 
silent,  not  from  sleep  but  from  watchfulness. 
When,  therefore,  on  running  over  Miss  Wal- 
ters' books,  he  found  volume  after  volume  of 
the  most  pronounced  skeptical  literature,  it 
was  but  natural  in  his  case  to  revert  to  her 
altered  manner,  and,  at  least  tentatively,  to 
put  two  and  two  together. 

Something  of  the  truth,  it  seems,  was 
divined  by  Miss  Walters,  for  she  said  pres- 
ently, "  I'm  afraid,  Fred,  you  won't  much 
approve  of  my  library.  I  suppose  you  think 
it  is  wrong  to  read  Strauss  and  Renan,  and 
books  about  geology  and  evolution." 

"  There  is  hardly  a  book  here,"  said  Stan- 
ley, "  that  I  have  not  read  myself,  and  I 
don't  think  that  wrong  in  me.  The  wrong 
or  right  of  a  book  depends  on  what  the 
reader  gets  out  of  it,  and  out  of  modern  sci- 
ence one  may  get  good  or  evil,  just  accord- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  225 

ing  to  the  condition  that  one  approaches  it 
in." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "  don't  let  us 
talk  religion,  please,  this  evening  ;  for  you 
know  quite  well  that  we  shall  never  agree 
about  it.  Tell  me,  if  you're  not  above  gos- 
sip, a  little  about  Mr.  Vernon.  It  was  from 
him  I  first  heard  you  were  here,  so  I  know 
he's  a  friend  of  yours ;  and  as  he's  our  next- 
door  neighbor,  it  is  only  natural  that  I 
should  be  a  little  curious." 

"  Did  you  never,"  said  Stanley,  "meet  him 
before  in  London?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  "though  of  course  I  had 
vaguely  heard  of  him.  What  I  did  hear  I 
confess  I  did  not  much  fancy ;  though  there 
were  always  people,  I  think,  who  believed  in 
his  good  qualities." 

"  Once,"  said  Stanley,  "  I  used  to  see  a 
good  deal  of  him  ;  but  that  was  before  things 
had  changed  with  me.  Since  he  has  been 
here,  I  have  often  walked  and  talked  with 
him  ;  but  it  was  some  time  before  he  ever 
thought  of  calling  on  me  ;  and  as,  from  his 
point  of  view,  all  the  ^vantage  to  be  gained 


226  A  Romance  of 

was  on  my  side,  I  did  not  like,  unasked,  to  inflict 
my  visits  upon  him.  This  last  week,  however, 
the  ice  has  been  broken ;  and  now  we  are  good 
friends  again.  Poor  fellow — it  makes  me 
rather  sad  to  hear  of  him,  and  I  don't  wonder 
if  he  is  looked  at  in  many  different  lights." 

This  conversation  put  the  two  on  an  easier 
footing.  Miss  Walters  lost  her  flippancy  and 
became  soft,  grave,  and  natural.  Stanley 
went  on  to  praise  Vernon  in  many  ways. 
"  Naturally,"  he  said,  "  he  was  a  man  of  the 
finest  feelings,  and  I  think  of  the  most  gen- 
erous aspirations.  But  there  is  something 
wrong  in  him,  I  can't  tell  what.  He  was 
like  a  peach-tree  :  always  blossoming,  and 
being  always  nipped  with  frost.  He  can  do 
a  kind  thing,  which  would  make  one  love 
another  man  "  (and  he  here  told  the  story  of 
the  little  crippled  peasant  girl),  "  but  he  does 
it  as  though  he  were  anxious  to  disarm  affec- 
tion. Perhaps  it  is  the  craving  for  pleasure, 
and  the  pride  of  a  brilliant  vanity  that  has 
been  eating  his  heart  out  silently.  And  yet, 
even  on  this  view,  he  puzzles  me.  I  have 
seen  him  in  scenes  of  pleasure ;  and  yet 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  227 

pleasure  has  hardly  pleased  him.  He  has 
taken  it  as  a  man  might  who  was  looking  for 
an  angel,  and  was  consorting  meanwhile  with 
publicans."  Miss  Walters  was  quite  silent, 
and  Stanley  resumed  sadly,  "  And  yet  the 
world — not  only  its  sins,  but  its  vanities,  have 
a  power  we  little  dream  of.  With  quiet  un- 
obtrusive persistence  they  can  work  miracles 
of  evil  on  us.  It  was  only  to-day,  as  I  lis- 
tened to  Vernon  talking,  that  I  thought  there 
was  a  remnant  in  him  of  what  might  once 
have  made  him  a  saint ;  and  two  lines  of 
Dante  flashed  across  my  mind  as  I  looked  at 
him,  '  If  vain  thoughts  had  not  been  a  putre- 
fying fountain  to  your  soul,  and  pleasure  as 
Pyramus  to  the  mulberry-tree.'  What  a 
true,  what  a  perfect  simile  !  I  know  nothing 
in  any  poetry  that  can  equal  it.  Pyramus, 
do  you  remember,  was  killed  at  the  foot  of 
the  mulberry-tree,  and  it  was  his  death-blood 
that  stained  the  fruit  red.  It  is  pleasure,  and 
dying  pleasure,  you  see,  that  stains  the  whole 
fruit  of  life." 

Stanley  had   been    looking   towards    Miss 
Walters,  but  not  at  her,  while  he  was  speak- 


228  A  Romance  of 

ing.  She,  however,  had  had  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him,  glazed  with  mute  attention.  When 
he  ended  she  still  said  nothing,  and  her 
silence  made  him  at  length  look  at  her.  She 
was  pale  as  ashes,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
and  was  now  staring  straight  before  her. 

"Is  it  not  very  hot  ?"  she  gasped.  "  Would 
you  mind  opening  the  window  a  little  wider?" 

Stanley  rose  to  do  so,  and  when  he  came 
back  to  his  place  she  had  her  handkerchief 
pressed  to  her  eyes,  and  was  in  a  flood  of 
silent  tears. 

The  subject  of  the  above  conversation — 
at  that  moment  how  was  he  employing  him- 
self ?  He  was  again  seated  at  his  writing- 
table,  as  he  had  been  two  nights  previously ; 
and  the  pages  of  his  confession  were  lying 
open  before  him.  He  glanced  at  them,  but 
with  no  look  of  sympathy.  His  mouth,  which 
could  smile  so  softly,  had  a  hard,  unpleasant 
move  in  it ;  and  as  he  took  up  his  pen  negli- 
gently, there  was  a  shadow  of  a  sneer  about 
his  nostril.  As  he  begun  to  write,  this  ex- 
pression deepened  ;  nor  was  it  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  following  deliberate  sentences  : 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  229 

"  I  am  a  brute — a  dolt — a  hypocrite.  If  I 
met  my  own  double,  how  my  gorge  would 
rise  at  it.  '  For  God's  sake,'  I  should  say, 
1  keep  that  filthy  beast  away  from  me.'  And 
yet,  upon  my  word,  I  am  wiser  than  some  of 
my  betters,  I  think.  Were  I  the  Deity  that  I 
addressed  the  above  whisperings  to,  I  should 
—suffering  my  existence — make  short  work 
of  the  whimperer.  I  should  first  kick,  then 
kill  him.  Can  I  believe  it  ?  But  two  nights 
since  I  thought  I  would  lay  my  mind  bare  to 
God  !  It  seemed  then  to  me  a  little  rose- 
garden  of  delicate  scented  sorrows.  I  for- 
get, I  suppose,  that  if  the  scented  sorrows 
were  there,  there  was  an  open  sewer  stagnant 
side  by  side  of  them.  Ah,  the  shattered  fab- 
ric of  my  whole  moral  existence  !  If  a  man 
can't  respect  himself,  there  are  but  two  es- 
capes from  torture — to  die,  or  to  respect 
nothing. 

"  Wretched,  wretched  me,  will  no  one  re- 
deem or  comfort  me  ?  No — no  one  ;  and 
indeed  I  do  not  deserve  it.  What !  and  is 
there  nothing  in  me — no  good  thing  in  my- 
self, that  I  might  rest  my  bruised  conscience 


230  A  Romance  of 

on,  and  struggle  to  look  up  again?  Nothing 
that  I  can  see.  As  I  look  round  my  heart 
there  is  nothing  but  unreality  everywhere- 
selfish  sham  affection,  a  profanation  of  what 
might  once  have  been  highest  in  me  ;  and 
this,  when  thwarted,  turning — ugh — to  ill- 
temper  and  appetite.  Good  heavens !  it 
was  the  other  day  only  that  I  sat  in  judgment 
on  Campbell  when  he  told  me  what  he  should 
do  in  his  misery :  and  here  have  I  been  doing 
the  same  thing  ;  or  if  I  haven't  it  is  through 
no  merit  of  mine.  The  same  thing — but  not 
with  the  same  excuse  for  it.  What  my  poor 
Campbell  dreaded  was  a  pain  that  only  his 
own  truth  made  possible.  My  pain  was  only 
a  wretched,  diseased  petulance.  And  yet— 
am  I  right  there  ?  Oh,  my  Cynthia,  have  I  no 
true  feeling  for  you  ?  " 

Here  he  paused,  and  laid  his  pen  down 
suddenly.  The  fact  of  having  written  her 
name  sent  a  quick  shivering  thrill  through 
him,  and  her  image  came  before  him  with  a 
strange  painful  vividness — her  image,  and 
that  of  the  Colonel  close  to  her.  Then  all  the 
events  of  the  afternoon  repeated  themselves 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  231 

in  a  series  of  sounds  and  pictures.  Not  only 
did  her  laugh  come  back  to  him,  the  clear 
color  of  her  cheek,  and  the  curve  of  her 
vestal  lips,  but  a  number  of  trivial  details  also 
—the  feather  in  her  hat,  her  slightly  soiled 
gray  gloves,  and  her  sleeve-links,  shaped  like 
a  horse's  curb  and  snaffle.  The  impression 
she  made  on  him  was,  he  came  to  see,  a  com- 
plex one.  She  was  instinct,  as  when  first 
he  saw  her,  with  an  air  of  high  refinement ; 
but  there  was  a  something  about  her,  too, 
that  was  not  quite  in  keeping  with  this. 
What  was  it  ?  He  could  not  tell ;  or  he 
could  tell  one  thing  only.  It  was  connected 
with  that  side  of  her  character  which  made 
her  tolerate  Colonel  Stapleton.  The  remem- 
brance of  this  man  gave  Vernon  a  sick  sen- 
sation— a  man,  so  it  seemed,  with  a  wholly 
corrupted  mind,  utterly  past  the  power  of 
thinking  a  clean  thought.  This  was  Miss 
Walters'  friend — her  intimate  chosen  com- 
rade. Vernon  was  not  now  jealous  of  him ; 
indeed  such  an  emotion  would  be,  he  felt, 
ridiculous ;  but  there  was  something  inexpli- 
cably tragic  in  that  clear-eyed  girl's  familiarity 


232  A  Romance 

with  him  ;  there  was  something  horrible  in 
her  want  of  horror  of  him.  The  eyes  of  the 
Vestal  looking  full  into  those  of  the  Satyr, 
unknowing  of  the  beast's  nature ;  his  oily 
laugh  mixing  itself  with  the  ripple  of  her's; 
his  coat-pocket  in  her  very  presence  bulging 
with  his  hateful  photographs — these  images 
stung  Vernon  as  they  presented  themselves, 
and  filled  his  heart  for  Miss  Walters  with  a 
strange  passionate  solicitude. 

Again  he  had  recourse  to  his  pen  and 
paper.  He  continued  on  the  same  sheet ; 
but  it  was  not  now  to  accuse  himself. 

"Cynthia,  my  darling,"  it  was  with  these 
words  he  begun  again,  "  I  am  sending  a  mute 
voice  to  you  from  my  dwelling  to  yours. 
You  have  moved  me — you  have  moved  me : 
I  feel  your  life  upon  mine,  and  a  longing, 
intense  to  bitterness,  is  stirring  me  now  for 
your  sake.  Is  it  love,  my  Cynthia?  It  may 
be,  but  I  can't  vouch  for  that.  It  seems  to 
me  like  a  wish  on  your  behalf,  far  mere  than 
on  my  own.  And  yet  I  still  would  wish  you 
in  some  way  to  open  your  heart  to  mine.  I 
should  like  to  have  some  possession  in  you. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  233 

Keep  one  look  in  your  eyes  for  me,  and  for 
me  only  ;  and,  ah,  your  lips  ! — shall  I  dare  to 
breathe  of  them  ?  Whenever  I  think  of  you 
I  think  of  a  'garden  enclosed,'  my  love,  my 
dove,  my  sister,  my  undented.  I  think  of 
dews,  and  roses,  and  of  gray  wet  aloes,  and 
of  sleeping  morning  seas,  and  purple  borders 
of  cinerarias.  Has  the  spirit  of  the  morning 
passed  with  you  ?  or  has  your  spirit  passed 
with  the  sights  and  smells  of  the  morning? 
Cynthia,  you  are  also  a  mystery.  I  cannot 
yet  understand  you.  We  have  all  had  our 
troubles.  We  have  all  done  things  to  be  re- 
pented of.  Oh,  be  true,  my  lovely  one,  to 
your  own  noblest  self ;  and  may  our  holy 
God  keep  guard  over  you  ! " 

Vernon  cast  his  eye  back  again  over  this 
and  his  previous  pages.  The  whole  of  his 
manuscript  was  written  without  break  or  date, 
and,  so  far  as  look  went,  might  have  passed 
for  a  coherent  composition.  As  he  looked  he 
smiled — not  with  a  sneer  now,  but  with  a 
sense  of  soft  whimsical  humor. 

"I  begin,"  he  said  to  himself,  "with  an 
address  to  God ;  and  I  end  it  with  a  note  to 


234  A  Romance  of 

Miss  Walters.  I  am  like  a  girl  I  was  once 
told  of,  who  used  to  doze  over  her  evening 
prayers,  and  who  caught  herself  murmuring 
as  a  conclusion  to  '  Our  Father,'  '  I  am  very 
sincerely  yours,  Kate  Dixon.' " 

The  bitterness  of  the  earlier  evening  had 
by  this  time  passed  away  from  him,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes  that  night  a  little  more  in 
peace  with  himself,  although  for  many  causes 
he  was  still  sad  and  feverish. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  235 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"O  Y  the  following  morning,  whether  through 
self-knowledge  or  self-deceit,  he  found 
he  had  settled  with  his  conscience  to  pursue 
Miss  Walters'  acquaintance,  and  to  become 
her  friend  in  the  closest  degree  possible.  Ii 
was  not  therefore  without  some  palpitation 
of  the  heart  that  he  received  a  letter  brought 
to  him,  in  her  own  handwriting.  It  bore  the 
date  of  the  preceding  night ;  and  he  was  still 
in  bed  when  it  reached  him.  Why  was  it 
sent  thus  early  ?  What  could  she  have  to 
say  to  him  ?  Would  she  decline  his  future 
acquaintance,  and  express  contempt  and  an- 
ger at  him  ?  His  conscience  was  by  this  time 
smiting  him,  and  reminding  him  of  Mrs. 
Crane.  His  courage  failed  him,  and  it  was 
some  minutes  before  he  broke  the  envelope. 


236  A  Romance  of 

"You  will  be  surprised  at  hearing  from  me,"  the  letter 
began  abruptly,  "  especially,  I  think,  after  the  last  few 
hours  we  spent  together.  You  were  angry  with  me,  I 
do  not  know  why.  But  let  that  pass  ;  I  am  not  going  to 
reproach  you  with  it.  Reproach  you !  I  can't  help 
laughing  at  having  written  that.  What  earthly  right 
should  I  have  to  reproach  you  ?  And  yet  I  am  going  to 
do  something  even  stranger.  I  am  going  to  presume 
farther  on  our  short,  our  very  short  acquaintance.  I  am 
going  to  break  through  every  rule  of  common  sense,  of 
common  etiquette,  of  common  everything.  I  hope  you 
will  not  think  me  a  mad-woman.  I  hope  you  will  under- 
stand me.  I  hope — I  believe  you  will.  I  am  acting  on 
a  perception  sharper  than  common  sense,  which  I  do  not 
think  is  deceiving  me.  And  shall  I  tell  you  what  makes 
me  bold  to  do  so  ?  When  I  met  you  the  other  day  in  the 
garden,  I  hinted  that  I  had  had  my  sorrows.  Now  I  tell 
you  the  fact  plainly.  I  won't  beat  about  the  bush  any 
longer ;  I  am  miserable.  Sometimes  my  misery  is  good 
enough  to  keep  its  distance  for  a  little  ;  but  before  long 
it  overtakes  me  ;  and  I  live  in  a  helpless  terror  that  it 
may  add  to  itself.  It  has  overtaken  me  now — yes,  now, 
within  the  last  few  days,  since  I  have  been  here,  since  I 
have  known  you.  To-night  it  has  become  unbearable, 
and  I  can't  help  writing  to  you.  But  why  you — you  of 
all  people  ?  Oh  !  I  can't  explain  ;  but  I  think  you  will 
understand  why.  You  have  had  your  sorrows  also  ;  and 
you  have  told  me  you  have.  You  are  looking  for  a  some- 
thing you  have  lost,  and  that  you  long  to  find  again.  So 
far,  you  are  a  faint,  faint  image  of  me.  A  faint  image 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  237 

only — I  don't  wrong  you  for  a  moment  by  thinking  you 
more  than  that.  But  even  that  gives  you  sympathy  ; 
and  what  I  want  is  a  friend.  Will  you  be  a  friend  to 
me  ?  Will  you  treat  me  as  a  woman  whom  you  know  wants 
help  and  tenderness  ?  I  am  utterly  lonely  ;  I  shall  die  if 
I  am  not  supported. 

"  And  now,  listen.  I  don't  want  to  alarm  you.  I  am 
not  inviting  you  to  a  series  of  confessions,  scenes,  and 
hysterics.  Don't  ask  me  about  my  unhappiness  ;  it  would 
do  you  no  good  to  hear  about  it ;  but  be  my  friend.  Talk 
to  me  as  if  you  trusted  me,  try  to  talk  to  me  as  if  you  re- 
spected me  ;  and  believe  me,  I  long  intensely  to  do  and  to 
be  good.  Try  to  know  me — will  you  ?  You  have  not  to 
come  far  to  see  me.  I  am  not  asking  very  much  of  you. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Vernon,  why  should  I  be  mock-modest  ? 
As  I  write,  I  am  sitting  opposite  to  a  looking-glass  ;  and 
that  reminds  me  that  many  men  would  come  much 
farther  for  my  company.  It  is  not  a  thought  that  I  have 
any  reason  to  be  proud  of.  What  I  want  to  remind  you 
of  is,  that  if  in  the  end  you  should  not  care  to  help  me, 
you  will  at  least  have  had  a  little  amusement  in  finding 
that  I  am  not  worth  helping. 

"  One  word  more.  When  next  we  meet,  don't  allude 
to  this  letter.  Act  if  you  will  upon  what  I  have  written  ; 
and  form  your  own  conjectures  from  it ;  but  as  for  itself, 
let  us  consent  not  to  mention  it.  So  much  depends,  in 
the  building  up  of  a  friendship,  on  what  is  said  and  on 
what  is  not  said.  A  thought  understood,  or  written,  may 
help  to  produce  intimacy,  when  the  same  thought  ut- 
tered would  produce  only  embarrassment,  and  perhaps 


238  A  Romance  of 

estrangement.  I  think  when  you  have  read  all  this,  you 
will  see  I  am  using  something  more  than  a  conventional 
form,  when  I  sign  myself, 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  CYNTHIA  WALTERS." 

To  this  was  added  a  postscript  that  had 
been  written  the  next  morning.  "  I  am  very 
unwell ;  I  have  passed  a  wretched  night : 
but  unless  I  am  unfit  to  appear,  my  aunt,  I 
know,  means  to  ask  you  to  dine  to-night. 
She  is  devoted  to  you.  Don't  answer  my 
letter  unless  no  invitation  comes  for  you.  If 
you  dine  with  us,  I  can  draw  my  own  com  lu- 
sions  from  you  !" 

As  Vernon  read  this,  a  new  life  seemed 
breathed  into  him.  The  disappointments 
and  the  barren  self-reproaches  of  yesterdiy 
were  dispelled  by  a  tumult  of  anticipations, 
and  his  whole  being  expanded.  As  for  Mrs. 
Crane,  she  was  quite  forgotten.  His  late 
conduct  with  her  ceased  to  give  him  any  un- 
easiness. The  memory  of  it  fell  off  him  like 
a  cloak,  and  seemed  so  little  a  part  of  himself 
that  he  needed  no  repentance  to  get  rid  of  it. 

The  day,  however,  proved  a  weary  one  ;  it 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  239 

was  a  vigil  of  uneventful  expectancy,  till,  at 
last,  about  five  o'clock,  the  invitation  to  din- 
ner came.  The  long  blank  suspense  had 
made  his  expectations  keener,  and  by  the 
time  he  came  to  dress  his  agitation  was  al- 
most painful.  His  hands  trembled  as  he 
forced  his  shirt-studs  into  the  button-holes ; 
and  he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  was  tying 
his  white  neck-tie,  "  I  feel  for  all  the  world  as 
if  I  were  just  going  to  my  dentist." 

Never  till  this  evening  had  he  entered  the 
Chateau  St.  John.  A  long  corridor  led  from 
the  hall  to  the  drawing-room  ;  and  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  servant  over  the  noiseless  carpet, 
he  could  almost  have  thought  he  trembled. 
Much  to  his  relief,  when  the  door  was  flung 
open,  Lady  Walters  was  alone  down  to  re- 
ceive him  ;  and  he  was  thus  able  to  recover 
himself  before  Miss  Walters  entered.  The 
old  lady  was  full  of  a  pleasant,  if  not  a  wise 
kindness.  Age  seemed  to  have  mellowed 
out  of  her  all  the  suspicions  which  give  chap- 
erons a  practical  value  ;  and  Vernon  saw  that 
whatever  intimacy  he  might  contract  with  the 
niece,  the  aunt  would  accept  it  on  trust  as  the 


240  A  Romance  of 

fittest  possible.  Her  niece,  it  was  evident, 
was  in  her  eyes  nothing  short  of  perfection. 
Vernon  remarked  on  the  taste  with  which  the 
drawing-room  had  been  arranged.  "  It  is  all 
Cynthia's  doing,"  said  Lady  Walters.  On  the 
chimney-piece  were  two  delicate  miniatures. 
"  They  "  said  Lady  Walters,  "  were  painted 
by  Cynthia.  They  are  her  father  and  mother. 
That  screen,  too,  is  hers  also,  with  the  panel 
of  lilacs  and  laburnums.  But  she  has  most 
of  her  things  in  her  boudoir,  which  I  have 
no  doubt  she  will  show  you  afterwards." 

"Miss  Walters,"  said  Vernon,  "was,  I 
think,  only  in  London  for  one  season,  and  I 
was  at  that  time  out  of  England." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Walters,  "  only  for  one 
season.  But  I  hope  she  will  go  back  next 
year.  She  is  so  much  stronger  now  than  she 
has  been ;  and  it  is  a  pity  that  a  girl  so  young 
and  beautiful  as  she  is  should  see  so  little  of 
the  society  of  her  own  country.  She  hates 
society,  so  she  says  herself ;  but  I  don't  think 
that  such  hates  are  the  right  thing  at  her  age ; 
and  whatever  they  may  say,  young  people 
don't  really  feel  them." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  241 

Just  at  this  moment  a  door  opened.  There 
was  a  soft  rustle  of  skirts,  and  then  Miss 
Walters  entered.  Her  appearance  might 
well  have  justified  her  aunt's  last  observation. 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  imagine  a  form 
that  seemed  more  made  for  the  world,  or  who 
could  have  added  a  tenderer  charm  to  its 
most  delicate  pomps  and  vanities.  She  was 
all  in  creamy  white,  with  but  two  touches  of 
color  upon  her — a  red  rose-bud  in  her  hair, 
and  a  red  rose,  blown,  upon  her  bosom.  Her 
whole  toilette,  as  she  softly  advanced  for- 
wards, was  like  the  art  of  a  Greek  sculptor, 
translated  by  a  Parisian  modiste  ;  and  with  its 
double  air  at  once  of  fashion  and  simplicity,  it 
deepened  the  rapt  expression  of  her  dark  re- 
gretful eyes. 

All  Vernon's  embarrassment  again  rushed 
upon  him  at  the  sight  of  her ;  but  it  was  not 
of  long  continuance.  There  are  certain  diffi- 
culties in  which  a  woman  is  always  a  man's 
superior,  and  this  was  one  of  them.  In  Miss 
Walters'  manner  there  was  no  trace  of  con- 
sciousness or  of  confusion.  Her  greeting 
was  the  perfection  of  calm  high-bred  grace- 
16 


242  A  Romance  of 

fulness.  Not  by  a  glance  even,  or  a  gesture, 
which  should  be  visible  to  him  only,  did  she 
seek  to  allude  to  the  smallest  understanding 
between  them  ;  and  Vernon  himself  could 
hardly  believe  it  possible  that  this  was  the 
same  woman  who  had  appealed  to  him  so  pas- 
sionately only  a  few  hours  before.  The  good 
actor,  however,  sustains  another.  He  felt  in- 
stantly that  he  was  in  stronger  hands  than 
his  own  ;  and  this  girl,  who  had  been  so  lately 
asking  for  help,  had  already  been  first  to  give 
it.  He  was  restored  to  ease  by  her,  almost 
in  spite  of  himself.  All  his  apprehensions 
were  replaced  by  a  delightful  form  of  excite- 
ment ;  and  he  often  thought,  during  the 
course  of  dinner,  that  he  had  never  in  his 
life  felt  so  strong  a  stimulus  to  talk  his  best, 
whether  about  grave  things  or  gay.  In  the 
presence  of  those  two  companions  it  seemed 
as  though  a  new  home  were  receiving  him  ; 
nor  was  this  charming  sensation  to  be  won- 
dered at.  He  had  fair  reason  to  be  certain 
of  two  most  flattering  facts,  that  the  young 
lady  admired,  and  that  the  old  lady  was  fond 
of  him  ;  and  he,  in  especial,  delighted  himself 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  243 

at  every  proof  of  the  latter,  because  it  seemed 
to  reflect  upon  him  a  softened  pleasure  from 
the  former.  Thus,  impatient  though  he  was 
in  general  of  any  personal  catechism,  he 
loved  with  positive  pleasure  Lady  Walters' 
numerous  questions.  Many  of  them  would 
have  been  irritating  from  their  mere  gener- 
ality, if  they  had  not  expressed  an  interest  to 
which  he  attached  a  value,  and  if  Miss  Wal- 
ters had  not  been  present  to  make  it  worth 
his  while  to  answer  them.  He  was  ques- 
tioned about  his  tastes,  his  books,  how  he 
employed  his  time,  and  if  he  had  ever  been 
in  any  service,  diplomatic  or  military ;  and 
finally,  if  there  were  any  pursuit  to  which  he 
meant  to  give  himself  for  the  future. 

"  When  Goethe,"  said  Vernon,  "was  about 
my  age  he  called  it  a  solemn  period.  He 
was  able  by  that  time  to  take  stock  of  his 
powers  and  character,  and  he  reserved  his 
resolves  and  deliberations  as  to  what  use  he 
should  put  them.  I  am  by  way,  here,  of  doing 
the  same  thing,  and  all  my  longings  are  bend- 
ing me  towards  some  kind  of  public  life." 

Lady  Walters  smiled  and  shook  her  head 


244  A  Romance  of 

at  him.  "Take  my  advice,"  said  she,  "and 
keep  clear  of  that.  Political  ambition  is  as 
cruel  a  passion  as  gambling.  It  takes  just  as 
much  out  of  your  life,  and  adds  just  as  little 
to  its  pleasures.  A  man  with  a  good  position 
like  yours  is  far  happier  when  he  is  content 
as  he  is.  I  should  envy  a  country  gentleman 
more  than  a  prime  minister." 

Vernon  smiled  softly,  and  turned  his  eyes 
to  Miss  Walters.  "  The  public  life,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  am  dreaming  of  might  perhaps  have 
no  connection  with  even  the  wish  for  office." 

Miss  Walters  answered  with  a  look  which 
said,  "  You  will  explain  afterwards." 

For  purpose  of  explanation  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  lack  of  opportunity.  In  the  course 
of  the  evening,  as  had  happened  before  with 
Stanley,  Miss  Walters  took  her  guest  and 
showed  him  her  own  sitting-room  ;  whilst  her 
aunt  meanwhile  closed  her  eyes  peaceably. 
At  the  prospect  of  another  tete-fct&te  Ver- 
non's  shyness  was  again  returning  ;  but  when 
he  found  himself  alone  with  Miss  Walters 
he  saw  that  his  fears  were  groundless.  So 
complete  was  the  nerve  and  tact  with  which 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  245 

she  managed  the  situation,  that  any  awkward 
scene  or  eclair cissement  was  quite  out  of  the 
question.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had  given 
him  a  kind  of  mental  chloroform;  and  that 
she  had,  while  he  was  under  it,  done  in  a  day 
the  work  of  weeks  on  him.  He  felt  that  be- 
tween them  there  were  now  no  formal  bar- 
riers ;  by  some  noiseless  magic  they  had  all 
been  swept  away  ;  and  he  could  speak  his 
mind  to  her  with  a  calm  but  entire  confi- 
dence. He  had  no  spasmodic  wit  to  extort 
or  to  make  confessions ;  but  her  presence 
seemed  to  act  on  his  thoughts  as  the  moon 
does  on  the  sea  it  illuminates.  They  moved 
under  her  influence,  and  stirred  with  a  new 
life  in  him  ;  and  he  had  the  delicious  fearless 
sense  that  when  he  spoke  he  should  be  un- 
derstood by  her. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  here  are  all  my  books, 
and  the  signs  of  how  I  employ  myself.  That 
picture  over  there  is  of  a  nun  praying.  Some 
time  or  other  I  will  let  you  see  it  by  day- 
light. Frederic  Stanley,  I  fear,  looked  rather 
askance  at  my  library.  It  made  him  think  that 
I  was  very  wicked.  It  will  make  you  think 


246  A  Romance  of 

I  am  very  chic.  What  fault  do  you  think  is 
the  greatest  shock  to  a  man  ?  However," 
she  went  on,  "  I  have  now  drove  my  reading 
out  of  blueness.  I  had  my  reasons  for  it." 

"  What  reasons  ?  " 

"  I  was  brought  up  chiefly  among  Cath- 
olics, and  I  once  had  thoughts  of  joining  the 
Church  myself.  Thoughts  ! — I  was  on  the 
very  point  of  plunging.  I  was  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice,  and  the  sea  of  faith  was  under 
me.  The  longing  to  throw  myself  off  was 
thrilling  up  my  backbone,  it  seemed ;  but 
something  held  me  back,  and  I  regained  my 
senses.  Well,  since  then  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  see  more  clearly  what  an  impatient 
world  has  got  to  say  on  the  matter  ;  and  I 
feel  now  that  I  have  been  saved  from  a  men- 
tal suicide." 

"  Which  is  the  best,"  said  Vernon,  with  a 
half-serious  smile,  "  to  kill  your  own  thoughts, 
or  to  be  killed  by  the  thoughts  of  others? 
Will  the  Professor  save  you  any  more  than 
the  Pope?" 

"You,"  she  said  abruptly,  "don't  believe 
in  the  Pope,  do  you  ?  " 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  247 

"  Once,"  Vernon  answered,  "  I  was  engaged 
to  be  married ;  the  marriage  was  broken  off,  and 
for  this  reason — I  insisted  that  my  children, 
if  I  had  any,  should  be  brought  up  Catholics." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  had  heard  that  much 
about  you  ;  and  had  I  been  the  lady  in  ques- 
tion I  should  have  acted  just  the  same.  I 
could  never — no  matter  how  much  I  loved  a 
man — I  could  never  bind  myself  at  the  altar 
that  I  would  rear  my  children  upon  a  lie. 
But  that  is  a  question,"  and  she  here  smiled 
softly,  "  that  a  brother  and  sister  can  have  no 
need  to  quarrel  over." 

"To  me,"  said  Vernon,  "it  is  the  only 
question  of  interest  ;  and  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  this :  Have  your  books  of  science  and 
history  led  you  to  anything  better  than  Cathol- 
icism ?" 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  better,  if  by  better 
you  mean  more  comforting.  If  that  were  all, 
you  would  have  found  me  in  sackcloth  long 
ago.  Could  I  only  with  my  eyes  open  be- 
lieve the  Church  true — were  it  on  one  side 
not  so  ridiculous — could  we  only  discover 
some  new  proof  of  its  authority — " 


248  A  Romance  of 

"That,"  said  Vernon,  "you  may  be  quite 
sure  we  never  shall :  and  if  the  Church  on 
one  side  is  ridiculous,  so  is  every  grave  con- 
ception of  life.  If  we  cannot  be  persuaded 
by  the  proofs  that  are  now  before  us,  we 
should  certainly  not  be  even  if  one  rose  from 
the  dead.  It  is  we  ourselves  that  must  be 
changed,  not  proofs  that  must  be  multiplied. 
It  is  not  the  pole,  but  the  needle,  that  needs 
to  be  re-magnetized.  A  fact  or  a  thought 
may  in  itself  be  single  ;  but  its  reasons  to 
men  and  women  may  be  infinite." 

"Talk  low,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "for  my 
aunt  must  be  still  asleep."  The  doorway  into 
the  drawing-room  was  only  closed  by  a  por- 
tiere. She  rose  and  pulled  this  aside  for  a 
moment.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  she  is  sleeping. 
She  has  been  very  tired  to-day.  Go  on,  Mr. 
Vernon  ;  only  speak  softly." 

Vernon  went  to  the  window  and  opened 
it  without  noise.  A  breath  of  the  night  air 
came  in,  warm  and  scented,  and  the  moon 
was  shining  with  a  clear,  unclouded  brill- 
iance. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  is  the  same  moon  that 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  249 

all  the  world  looks  at.  But  what  different 
thoughts  it  wakes  nightly  in  a  million  hearts ! 
And  it  is  the  same  with  scientific  discoveries, 
and  with  thoughts  and  arguments.  If  you 
want  another  illustration,  let  us  take  our  own 
personalities.  You  are  one  single  soul,  you 
are  one  single  human  character ;  but  are 
there  two  other  souls  to  whom  you  have  ever 
seemed  the  same  ?  Have  you  ever  affected 
any  one  as  you  affect  me  ?  " 

She  had  followed  him  to  the  window,  and 
was  standing  close  beside  him.  He  had 
obeyed  her  injunction  to  the  letter,  and  he 
certainly  now  spoke  low  enough.  She  had 
hung  her  head,  as  though  the  better  to  listen 
to  him,  but  she  now  raised  it  when  he  finished, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  his. 

"How  do  I  affect  you?"  she  said  in  a 
voice  that  had  sunk  to  a  whisper.  "  So  much 
depends  upon  that,  that  I  have  hardly  cou- 
rage to  ask  you." 

Vernon  took  her  hand,  he  drew  her  to- 
wards himself,  and  slowly  bent  over  her  till 
his  lips  were  approaching  hers.  For  a  moment 
or  two  she  had  remained  passive,  but  she  now 


250  A  Romance. 

gave  a  slight  start  away  from  him,  though  she 
did  not  withdraw  her  hand. 

"  Remember,"  she  exclaimed  appealingly, 
"what  I  have  already  said  to  you.  Nothing 
like  that  must  ever  come  into  our  friendship." 

Vernon  made  no  answer ;  and  as  if  by  some 
silent  understanding  the  two  walked  out  to- 
gether into  the  moonlight.  They  were  both 
of  them  emerging  also  into  some  new  period 
of  their  existence. 


BOOK   III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

\~^7HATEVER  might  be  awaiting  them  in 
*  *  this  new  period,  the  portal  by  which 
they  entered  it  was  one  of  unearthly  beauty. 
The  gardens  lay  before  them  in  mysterious 
light  and  shadow,  and  seemed  to  lure  them 
onwards.  Distinct  out  of  the  mist  of  foliage 
rose  the  black  spires  of  cypresses,  and  here 
and  there  an  almond-tree,  like  a  fountain  of 
pink  moonlight  :  whilst  beyond,  with  a  daz- 
zling sparkle,  the  waves  shook  dreamily. 

The  window  opened  on  a  flight  of  marble 
steps.  They  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  went  down  together.  Miss  Walters' 
last  injunction  had  been  spoken  with  an  ap- 
pealing emphasis  ;  but  to  any  outside  observer 
the  result  would  have  been  hardly  obvious. 

Her  hand  was  on  Vernon's  arm,  and  seemed 

253 


254  A  Romance  of 

to  bear  on  it ;  and  they  were  for  a  long  time 
silent  as  only  lovers  can  be.  But  though  they 
were  silent,  the  night  was  not  silent  round 
them.  The  green  frogs  made  a  chorus  of 
soft  innumerable  murmurs ;  fountains  gleamed 
and  splashed  half-hidden  amongst  the  orange- 
trees  ;  the  roses  trembled  in  the  balmy  mov- 
ing air ;  the  leaves  of  the  eucalyptus  whis- 
pered ;  and  through  all  these  sounds  continu- 
ously came  a  yet  gentler  sound  of  the  sea. 

The  hour  filled  them,  as  it  has  filled  so 
many  thousand  others,  with  a  sense  of  dreamy 
spiritual  voluptuousness  :  and  secret  thoughts 
in  both  of  them  came  floating  up  out  of  their 
hiding-places,  and  gathered  in  soft  impatience 
for  the  time  when  they  should  find  utterance. 

Miss  Walters  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  You 
must  tell  me,"  she  began,  "  about  your  public 
life,  and  the  way  you  want  to  employ  your- 
self. And  you  must  tell  me,  too,"  she  went 
on  more  tenderly,  "  you  must  tell  me  another 
thing,  for  I  do  not  quite  understand  you. 
You  believe  in  a  God,  don't  you  ? — I  think 
you  do  —  and  that  it  matters  something 
whether  we  do  right  or  wrong  ?  Of  course 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  255 

it  matters  to  others,  so  far  as  our  acts  touch 
them.  I  know  all  about  organ  and  function, 
which  is  the  prig's  duty  to  his  neighbor.  But 
I  am  not  speaking  of  that.  I  mean  as  re- 
gards ourselves." 

"If  I  believe  anything,"  said  Vernon,  "  I 
believe  that  it  does  matter.  If  this  poor 
human  race  of  ours  is  worth  a  moment's  un- 
selfish care,  it  is  worth  it  because  we  each  of 
us  have  a  soul  to  be  saved  or  lost.  I  have, 
and  so  have  you." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  ?  "  she  said. 

The  question  was  put  so  earnestly  that  it 
a  little  embarrassed  Vernon.  "  You  remem- 
ber," he  answered,  "  what  I  have  said  to  you 
just  now.  One  may  know  that  a  proof  exists, 
and  may  not  fail  to  be  touched  by  it.  The 
soul  may  become  demagnetized,  and  may 
cease  to  point  to  God  ;  but  one  may  know  he 
is  still  somewhere,  though  one  cannot  tell 
where.  That  is  my  condition,  and  the  condi- 
tion I  am  struggling  to  escape  from.  I  have 
come  here,  as  I  told  you,  to  arrange  my  plans 
for  doing  so.  It  is  a  hard,  hard  work,"  he 
continued  presently,  "this  piecing  together  of 


256  A  Romance  of 

a  broken  self  again.  I  only  see  hope  in  one 
thing,  and  that,  as  I  said  at  dinner,  is  public 
life." 

"  And  is  your  only  hope  then,"  she  said, 
"  in  that  kind  of  strong  distraction  ?  Do  you 
wish  to  forget  your  loss,  not  to  retrieve  it  ?  " 

"You  think  of  public  life,"  he  said,  "  in  the 
same  way  your  aunt  does.  You  heard  her 
advice  at  dinner  to  me  ;  it  was  full  of  the  old 
spirit  of  goodness.  Rest  and  contentment, 
her  moral  was,  are  the  truest  springs  of  hap- 
piness. But  the  time  for  that  teaching  is 
gone,  or  is  fast  going  ;  even  Frederic  Stanley 
feels  this:  and  though  the  spiritual  air  is 
growing  each  day  darker  about  us,  yet 
through  the  disastrous  twilight  burns  the 
shape  of  a  new  duty — the  duty  to  spend  and 
to  be  spent  for  others.  I  call  it  new,  but  it 
is  not.  It  only  speaks  in  an  ampler  language. 
Look  at  me  :  I  have  wealth  and  power,  and, 
I  think,  some  talents.  It  is  to  others  that  I 
owe  these  ;  that  is  the  sense  that  haunts  me ; 
and  the  greater  a  man's  power  or  place  is,  the 
greater,  in  God's  eyes,  is  the  number  of  his 
creditors.  If  I  ever  find  God  again,  it  must 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  257 

be  with  hands  full  of  good  deeds,  not  only 
clean  of  evil.  Perhaps  when  I  have  some- 
thing to  bring  him,  he  will  again  show  his 
face  to  me.  Such  at  least  is  my  rather  forlorn 
hope.  It  may  turn  out  true,  as  I  often  used 
to  say  to  myself,  '  He  that  doeth  shall  know 
of  the  doctrine.' " 

"You  speak  of  work  in  the  world.  What 
sort  of  work  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  actually  made 
a  beginning  of  it  ;  but  since  I  put  my  hand 
to  the  plough  I  have  looked  back  again ;  and, 
I  am  in  a  worse  state  now  than  ever." 

"  You  stood  for  Parliament  and  you  were 
not  elected.  Yes,  I  had  heard  of  that ;  but 
that  was  surely  no  fault  of  yours." 

"No,  and  besides  that  was  merely  a  piece 
of  by-play.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  been 
in  Parliament,  certainly ;  but  my  wishes  to  do 
good  did  not  stand  or  fall  with  my  active 
part  in  politics." 

"  Well,"  she   said,    "  and   have   they  been 
wishes  only  ?     Have  you  given  the  struggle 
up  ?     Have  you  exchanged  life  in   England 
for  a  dream  by  the  Mediterranean  ?" 
17 


258  A  Romance  of 

"One  of  the  oldest,"  he  said,  "of  all  old 
mysteries  is  the  division  between  will  and 
wish.  I  have  still  the  wish  to  act,  but  at 
present  I  have  lost  the  will :  and  though  our 
work  may  be  all  cut  out  for  us,  we  can't  do  it 
if  our  arms  are  broken.  I  began  my  activity 
under  a  passing  emotional  stimulus  ;  but  that 
has  now  gone  and  has  left  me  as  weak  as 
ever.  For  a  life's  work,  unless  one's  own  ad- 
vancement is  included  in  it,  one  needs  some 
other  motive  than  the  strength  of  one's  own 
conscience.  On  a  night  like  this,  alone,  and 
with  you  beside  me,  what  dreams  I  might  fill 
my  soul  with,  of  deeds  done,  and  of  hope  and 
faith  recovered  ;  but  to  see  one's  castle  in  a 
dream  is  one  thing,  and  to  build  it  with  brick 
afterwards  is  quite  another  thing." 

Vernon  felt  on  his  arm  Miss  Walters'  hand 
press  heavier,  and  she  looked  at  him  with 
liquid  eyes. 

"  Am  I,  then,"  she  said,  "  any  help  to  you 
in  your  dreaming  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  they  paused  and  looked  at 
the  scene  about  them.  They  had  just 
emerged  from  a  walk  of  winding  shadow,  and 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  259 

found  themselves  suddenly  face  to  face  with 
the  sea.  It  was  close  to  them.  They  were 
on  a  long  curved  terrace,  and  the  quiet  rip- 
ples were  lapping  on  its  marble  border.  The 
sight  for  a  moment  held  the  two  wanderers 
breathless,  but  presently  they  had  to  turn  to 
a  matter  a  little  homelier.  The  air  was  warm, 
but  Miss  Walters  shuddered  slightly  as  a 
breath  from  the  waves  swept  up  to  her.  Ver- 
non  remarked  it  tenderly. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said.  "  However,  just 
round  that  corner,  in  the  boat-house,  are  a  hat 
and  a  shawl  of  mine,  which  Jack  Stapleton 
left  there.  I  think  I  will  go  and  fetch 
them." 

They  entered  and  found  the  things  ;  and 
again  they  paused  together.  Into  the  dark 
gloom  of  the  boat-house  ran  the  waves  in  sil- 
ver tendrils  ;  the  boat  softly  and  slowly  rocked 
with  its  freight  of  shadow.  In  the  course  of 
a  few  seconds  they  could  distinguish  the  oars 
lying  in  it.  The  same  thought  seized  both 
their  minds  simultaneously,  and  they  ex- 
changed a  glance  in  silence.  Vernon  at  last 
said,  "  Shall  I  row  you  ?  "  She  gave  no  di- 


260  A  Romance  of 

rect  answer,  and  he  had  time  to  reflect  a  lit- 
tle. "But  what,"  he  added,  "would  your 
aunt  say  ?  It  must  be  getting  late  by  this 
time." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "she  never  asks 
•He  questions.  If  I  am  not  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  goes  to  bed  without  inquiring  for 
me  ;  and  she  will  think  that,  to  avoid  waking 
her,  I  sent  you  home  through  the  gardens  ; 
not  that  she  would  in  the  least  mind,  if  I  were 
to  stop  out  till  midnight  with  you,  except  for 
my  catching  cold." 

"  Come  then,"  said  Vernon,  and  he  drew 
the  boat  toward  him  ;  but  she  was  still  silent. 
He  jumped  in  and  began  to  arrange  the  cush- 
ions, and  then  in  the  shadow  he  held  his  hand 
out  to  her.  At  last  by  her  movement  he  saw 
that  she  had  consented.  She  gave  him  her 
hand,  her  form  bent  on  his  for  a  moment,  and 
in  a  moment  more  they  had  shot  out  into  the 
moonlight. 

In  the  first  five  minutes  or  so  Vernon 
pulled  with  vigor,  and  between  themselves 
and  the  shore  there  was  soon  a  good  inter- 
val. Then  his  exertions  lessened,  the  oars 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  261 

began  to  splash  with  a  gentler  dreamier  ca- 
dence, and  a  consciousness  of  the  situation 
dawned  softly  upon  both  of  them.  The  im- 
agination at  times  like  these  acquires  stronger 
powers  than  ordinary ;  it  transfigures  places, 
and  it  does  what  it  will  with  distance.  It 
seemed  to  these  two  that  they  had  left  the 
world  behind  them  :  they  were  solitary  ad- 
venturers on  some  far  enchanted  ocean. 
There  awoke  in  both  of  them  a  strange  sense 
of  exultation  ;  and  at  last  Vernon  murmured, 
"  Listen,  and  I  will  sing  to  you."  He  seemed 
to  have  scarcely  spoken  when  the  following 
song  broke  from  him  : — 

"  Hollow  and  vast  starred  skies  are  o'er  us, 
Bare  to  their  blue  profoundest  height ; 
Waves  and  moonlight  melt  before  us 
Into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  night. 

"  Row,  young  oarsman  !  row,  young  oarsman  ! 

See  how  the  diamonds  drip  from  the  oar; 
What  of  the  shore  and  friends  ?  young  oarsman. 
Never  row  us  again  to  shore. 

"  See  how  shadow  and  silver  mingle 

Here  on  the  wonderful  wide  bare  sea, 

And  shall  we  sigh  for  the  blinking  ingle — 

Sigh  for  the  old  known  chamber — we  ? 


262  A  Romance  of 

"  Row  !  young  oarsman,  far  out  yonder, 

Into  the  crypt  of  the  night  we  float ; 
Fair  faint  moon-flower  wash  and  wander, 
Wash  and  wander  about  our  boat. 

•'  Not  a  fetter  is  here  to  bind  us, 

Love  and  memory  lose  their  spell ; 
Friends  of  the  home  we  have  left  behind  us, 
Prisoners  of  content,  farewell. 

"  Row,  young  oarsman,  far  out  yonder, 

Over  the  moonlight's  breathing  breast ! 
Rest  not,  give  us  no  pause  to  ponder, 
All  things  we  can  endure  but  rest." 

The  song  ended ;  but  it  had  broken  the 
spell  of  silence.  Miss  Walters  murmured 
some  vague  words  of  applause  ;  and  then  said, 
abruptly,  though  in  a  low  voice  like  music, 
"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  one  thing.  You 
made  a  new  start  in  life,  under  the  influence 
of  some  strong  emotion.  What  emotion  was 
that?" 

Vernon  smiled  slightly.  "It  was  emotion," 
he  answered,  "  connected  with  my  plan  of 
marrying." 

She  smiled  also.  "  That  is  surely  an  odd 
way  of  putting  it.  Was  it  falling  in  love, 
then,  that  nerved  you  to  do  your  duty  ?  " 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  263 

"  Indirectly  you  may  call  it  that,"  said  Ver- 
non  naively.  "  I  realized  that  to  marry  was 
a  very  solemn  step,  and  that  it  was  the  death- 
blow to  everything  that  had  hitherto  made 
life  enjoyable.  It  was  as  that  I  welcomed  it. 
I  would  die  through  it  into  a  new  life.  I  re- 
solved that  thenceforward  I  would  only  live 
for  duty.  My  personal  interests  would  all  be 
blighted  ;  and  I  would  lay  up  interests  for 
myself  that  should  be  more  than  personal.  I 
looked  on  marriage  as  a  sacrament  not  of  joy 
or  rest,  but  of  sacrifice." 

"  How  strangely  you  talk,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is 
not  like  a  human  being.  You  might  be  some 
cold  sea-creature  floating  on  its  own  element. 
What,  if  these  are  your  feelings,  made  you 
ever  think  of  marrying  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  have  given  a 
wrong  account  of  myself.  It  is  not  every  one 
that  can  write  his  own  history  truly ;  our  heart 
and  memories  are  littered  with  false  materials. 
Some  people  think — perhaps  you  are  one  of 
them — that  a  man,  with  a  will  to  do  so,  can 
of  course  confide  to  another  his  motives  on  a 
given  occasion.  But  it  is  not  so.  There  are 


264  A  Romance  of 

actions  we  may  account  for  in  a  dozen  contra- 
dictory ways,  and  yet  be  doing  our  best,  at 
each  attempt,  to  be  truthful.  Try  to  catch 
on  paper  your  own  face  in  a  looking-glass. 
Does  the  power  to  do  that  come  to  us  for  the 
wishing?  It  is  as  hard  sometimes  to  describe 
your  tastes  or  motives  as  to  take  a  pencil  and 
draw  your  own  expression.  Each  is  equally 
likely  to  elude  your  most  painful  touches.  I 
perhaps  made  a  wrong  stroke  just  now.  Let 
me  rub  it  out,  and  see  if  I  can't  do  better. 
Of  course  it  was  love  that  made  me  first  think 
of  marrying  ;  but  I  don't  think  love  acted  well 
by  me.  He  came  like  a  porter,  bearing  a  great 
pack  of  duties,  which  he  left  inside  my  door, 
and  then  he  went  away  again." 

Miss  Walters  smiled  at  this  whimsical  simile. 
"  Then  it  was  not  true  love,"  she  said,  "  if  it 
played  you  a  trick  like  that.  True  love  never 
goes  away  till  you  drive  it." 

"  No,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  suppose  it  was  not 
true  love ;  and  yet  at  the  time  it  must  have 
seemed  very  like  it.  However,  the  whole 
affair  proved  a  fiasco  in  all  ways.  When  I 
gave  up  my  frivolous  interests,  I  wished  to 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  265 

live  for  larger  ones.  My  wife  that  was  to 
have  been  wished  me  to  live  for  her.  She 
used  often  to  say  to  me,  '  Am  I  the  chief  thing 
in  your  life  ? ' ' 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "  she  would 
have  been  ready  to  live  for  you." 

"  Only  too  ready,"  said  Vernon.  "  But  that 
was  not  what  I  asked  of  her.  I  wanted  to  find 
God,  not  to  be  made  a  fetish." 

"  Still,"  said  Miss  Walters,  "you  are  talking 
like  a  merman.  Would  there  have  been  no 
help  to  you  in  the  sense  of  her  near  compan- 
ionship ?  " 

"If  you  mean  by  her  the  special  person 
I  speak  of,  I  doubt  if  there  ever  would.  It 
is  true  that  at  one  time  I  could  honestly  say 
/  love  you  to  her.  But  the  love  that  I  long 
for  is  but  half  expressed  by  I  love  you.  One 
must  be  forced  to  add,  You  comprehend  me  ; 
and  you  give  a  new  life  to  my  thoughts  because 
I  can  speak  them  freely  to  you.  So  perhaps 
this  would  be  more  accurate — Because  you 
enable  me  thus  to  speak  them,  you  are  indirectly 
creating  them" 

"  And  have  you  never  felt  that  ?  "  she  said. 


266  A  Romance  of 

Vernon's  voice  dropped  low,  and  he  looked 
with  fixed  eyes  at  her.  "That,"  he  said,  "is 
what  I  feel  with  you.  I  would  speak  to  you 
of  my  aims  and  hopes  as  I  have  never  spoken 
to  any  woman  before.  My  inmost  thoughts, 
at  present,  are  like  dim  spirits  in  prison.  At 
your  spell  they  would  come  forth  and  embody 
themselves.  You  would  touch  my  lips,  I 
should  speak ;  and  there  would  be  a  new 
world  born  in  me.  I  feel  your  power  now — 
here,  as  we  are  floating  on  together.  Some 
of  my  thoughts  you  have  set  free  already  ; 
they  can  breathe,  they  have  acquired  shape, 
they  may  take  a  part  in  guiding  me.  Do  I 
speak  now  like  a  merman  ? — do  I  speak  like 
a  cold  sea-creature  ?  " 

Vernon  was  far  from  conscious  of  the  direct- 
ness of  the  declarations  he  was  making ;  but 
he  was  conscious  certainly  of  the  passion  with 
which  he  made  them.  There  was  a  tone  in 
his  voice  which,  had  his  words  been  merely 
about  the  weather,  would  have  winged  them 
like  fire-tipped  arrows  to  the  woman  they  were 
addressed  to.  She  would  be  unable,  and  he 
felt  this,  to  miss  their  appealing  earnestness. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  267 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke,  to  see  the  effect 
he  made  ;  but  her  expression  baffled  him.  Of 
one  thing  only  he  could  be  certain  ;  and  that 
was,  that  he  had  not  confused  her.  Then  sud- 
denly the  thought  flashed  across  him  that  this 
was  a  woman  who  was  used  to  be  made  love  to. 
In  an  instant  the  air  was  peopled  with  hosts  of 
phantom  rivals,  with  whom  she  shared  secrets 
that  would  be  hid  from  him  forever.  The 
hands  of  another  man  had  lain  clasped  on 
hers ;  on  her  lips  were  the  memories  of  another 
man's  kisses  ;  perhaps  her  heart  was  already  in 
the  grave  of  some  dead  lover.  The  imagina- 
tion fixed  him  with  a  new  longing  for  her.  He 
would  snatch  her,  he  felt,  from  the  arms  and  the 
lips  of  others ;  she  should  be  his,  and  his  only. 

He  drew  his  oars  into  the  boat,  and  sat 
himself  in  the  stern  beside  her.  He  was 
doubtful  how  she  would  take  this,  but  he  was 
reassured  in  a  moment,  for  she  moved  a  little 
to  make  room  for  him.  Still  she  did  not  speak, 
she  only  softly  looked  at  him. 

"  Miss  Walters,"  he  said,  "  Cynthia — why 
are  you  silent?  Are  you  angry  because  I 
tell  you  how  you  have  helped  me  ?  " 


268  A   Romance  of 

She  gave  a  strange  smile  which  seemed  to 
have  something  of  pity  in  it.  "  Once  upon  a 
time,"  she  said,  "perhaps  I  might  have  helped 
you  ;  but  I  can  never  do  so  now.  You  have 
known  me  too  late  for  that.  And  yet  I  am 
wrong.  I  can  help  you  in  one  thing  ;  I  can 
tell  you  to  beware  of  me.  I  say  this  for  my 
sake,  and  for  yours.  I  might  so  easily  bring 
such  untold  evil  on  both  of  us." 

Vernon  put  his  hand  upon  hers,  and  said  in 
a  literal  whisper,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  one 
question."  She  turned  her  ear  to  him,  and 
pressing  her  hand  hard,  almost  painfully,  he 
said,  "Are  you  married  to  some  one  else?" 

She  drew  back  as  if  relieved,  and  shaking 
her  head,  murmured  "  No." 

"  Then,"  said  Vernon,  his  voice  once  more 
getting  stronger,  "  what  harm  can  our  nearer 
friendship  bring  us  ?  Harm  ! — it  can  bring 
only  good."  His  hand  was  still  upon  hers, 
and  now  in  silence  he  drew  her  toward  him- 
self, and  he  could  hear  her  heart  beating. 
For  a  moment  she  yielded  passively  to  him  ; 
she  was  then  again  reluctant,  holding  her 
head  averted,  while  her  breath  came  quickly. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  269 

Then  again,  and  another  change  came  over 
her.  He  felt  her  yield  once  more  like  a 
branch  that  breaks  slowly.  Her  hand  was 
on  his  shoulder,  and  his  lips  were  on  hers. 

Whoever  once  had  kissed  them,  he  had 
made  them  his  own  now ;  such  was  the 
thought  that  thrilled  him.  And  yet  in  his 
caress  there  was  no  warm  vehemence.  It 
was  passionate,  but  its  passion  was  tempted 
by  a  gentle,  earnest  reverence,  and  a  sense 
of  solicitude  that  he  could  not  account  for. 
She  seemed  to  have  lost  herself  far  more 
wholly  than  he.  It  was  she,  however,  who 
first  found  her  voice  again.  She  slowly  drew 
back  from  him,  as  if  she  were  waking  up 
from  a  dream,  and  looked  at  him  with  re- 
proachful eyes. 

"  Oh  why,"  she  murmured,  clasping  her 
hands  tightly,  "why  have  you  done  this  to 
me?" 

"  Done  what  ?  "  he  said.  "  Surely  I  have 
done  no  wrong  to  you.  Is  it  doing  a  wrong 
to  you  if  I  can  make  you  love  me  ?  " 

"If  you  could  do  that,"  she  said,  with  a 
faint,  unnatural  laugh,  "  it  would  be  yourself 


270  A  Romance  of 

you  were  doing  a  wrong  to.  But," — and  her 
voice  softened — "  you  have  not  done  that ; 
no,  you  have  not  done  that." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Vernon  in  bewilder- 
ment, "  and  do  you  not  love  me  then  ?  " 

He  turned  to  her  in  expectation  of  her 
speaking,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  was 
looking  straight  before  her  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  distance,  lost  in  some  self-ques- 
tioning. Then  her  lips  quivered  a  little,  and 
she  shook  her  head  slowly.  That  was  her 
only  answer,  and  for  a  time  there  was  com- 
plete silence  between  them.  Presently,  how- 
ever, a  sudden  change  came  over  her.  A 
new  smile  lit  her  face  up,  like  the  gleam  of  a 
spring  morning,  and  with  a  soft  expression  of 
passionless,  pure  affection.  "  Oh,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  do  indeed  wish  you  well.  I  do  wish 
all  that  is  best  for  you.  God  has  given  you 
many  gifts  ;  I  wish  you  not  to  squander  them. 
I  wish  you  strength  and  endurance,  and  a 
clear  unclouded  faith,  that  you  may  act  up  to 
the  brightest  light  that  is  in  you.  And  if  the 
thought  will  be  any  help  to  you  that  by  do- 
ing yourself  justice  you  are  giving  me  pleas- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  271 

ure,  that  help  I  may  indeed  venture  to  offer 
you.  "  Come,"  she  went  on,  "  bend  down  to 
me  once  more.  No — not  your  lips,  but  your 
forehead  ;  and  I  will  kiss  you  once  there,  as 
a  sister  or  as  a  mother  might.  The  touch  of 
my  lips,  like  that,  can  do  no  wrong  to  you. 
And  now — take  your  oars.  It  is  late,  and  let 
us  row  back  again." 

The  two  said  nothing  more  till  they  were 
once  more  floating  into  the  boat-house.  Ver- 
non's  mind  meanwhile  was  in  a  state  of  dim 
commotion.  He  had  partly  the  sense  of  a  de- 
lightful rest  in  loving,  partly  a  sense  of  hun- 
ger only  half  pacified.  "  She  must  be  more 
mine  than  as  yet  she  is,"  was  one  of  the 
thoughts  that  shaped  themselves ;  and  with 
many  variations  this  kept  on  recurring  to  him. 
But  below  all  there  lurked  another  of  a  some- 
what different  character,  which  only  half-per- 
ceived gave  its  special  tone  to  the  rest.  This 
was,  "  Let  me  love  her  never  so  well,  our  tie 
will  still  be  slight  enough.  She  has  told  me 
she  could  never  unite  her  life  to  mine.  I  need 
have  no  fear  that  she  will  ever  prepare  a  joke 
for  me.  We  will  not  unite,  we  will  meet 


272  A  Romance  of 

on  some  neutral  ground,  in  some  lonely  sa- 
cred grove,  far  from  the  home  of  each  of  us. 
She  shall  be  my  spiritual  mistress." 

He  little  thought  how  soon  this  mood  was 
to  change  in  him. 

They  walked  back  toward  the  Chateau, 
and  the  first  far,  pale  glimpse  of  it  keenly 
suggested  parting. 

Vernon  paused  in  his  walk,  and  turned  to 
her.  "  And  is  a  sister's  kiss,"  he  said,  "  all 
you  can  ever  give  me  ?  " 

"  All,"  she  said.  "  You  must  ask  for  noth- 
ing more.  She  moved  a  pace  away,  and  stood 
still,  confronting  him.  "  Do  you  see  me," 
she  went  on.  "  Will  you  please  to  take  a  good 
look  at  me.  My  eyes  are  clear ;  my  lips  and 
my  cheeks  look  young  enough.  You  perhaps 
think  me  a  good  woman.  Well,  shall  I  tell 
you  the  truth  ?  To  make  me  fit  to  give  what 
you  are  asking  for,  you  would  have  first  to 
cast  seven  devils  out  of  me  !  " 

Vernon  was  well  accustomed  to  feminine 
self-reproaches.  "  Hush,"  he  said,  "  it  is  fool- 
ish to  talk  like  that.  We  have  all  done 
Wrong,  and  it  may  be  right  at  times  to  ac- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  273 

knowledge  it.  But  exaggeration  of  that  kind 
must  be  always  morbid." 

"I  do  not  exaggerate.  I  have  already 
ruined  one  man's  happiness,  as  you  will  per- 
haps realize  some  day,  without  my  telling 
you.  If  you  were  to  count  upon  my  love,  I 
should  ruin  your  happiness  also." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Vernon,  with  a  quick  but 
tender  sharpness.  "  Of  course,  for  all  I  know 
you  may  have  behaved  ill  to  some  one,  but 
you  have  not  ruined  your  nature,  you  have 
not  stained  your  heart  by  it.  I  can  see  you 
better  than  you  can.  It  is  wrong,  it  is  unreal 
to  talk  of  yourself  as  if  you  were  a  Mary 
Magdalene." 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said,  with  a  cold  calm- 
ness that  surprised  him.  "  You  are  right," 
she  repeated ;  and  then  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands,  "  I  am  worse,"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  whisper  choked  with  sobs — "  I  am  worse, 
far  worse,  than  any  Mary  Magdalene." 

All  kinds  of  conjectures  as  to  her  possible 
past  history  had  floated  through  Vernon's 
mind.  But  to  think  of  a  thing  as  a  possi- 
bility, does  not  always  prepare  us  for  hearing 
18 


274  -A  Romance  of 

it  at  last  as  a  fact ;  and  he,  as  he  heard,  stood 
for  a  time  petrified,  feeling  his  temples  grow 
deadly  cold,  and  the  skin  on  his  forehead 
tighten.  For  a  long  time  he  could  do  no 
more  than  look  at  her — at  that  form  pure  as 
a  snowdrop,  drooping  her  head  so  near  him, 
her  hands  still  hiding  her  face. 

At  last  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Speak  to 
me  !  "  But  she  gave  him  no  answer.  Then 
softly  and  gently  he  tried  to  move  her  hands. 
At  that  moment,  however,  a  sound  was  heard 
from  the  house  :  it  was  the  sound  of  a  win- 
dow closing. 

"Come,"  she  said,  starting;  "  this  has  lasted 
long  enough,"  and  she  began  to  move  quickly 
forward,  with  her  face  still  turned  from  Vernon. 

Lady  Walters  was  already  gone  to  bed,  and 
a  footman  was  busy  putting  out  the  lights 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Is  the  hall-lamp  burning  ? "  said  Miss 
Walters.  "  Mr.  Vernon's  greatcoat  is  there. 
No  ?  Then  give  me  a  candle,  I  will  let  him 
out  myself." 

She  tried  to  hold  the  candle  so  that  its  light 
should  not  fall  on  her  face,  and  she  still  refused 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  275 

to  look  at  him  ;  but  when  it  came  for  her  to 
undo  the  door,  it  was  hard  to  avoid  doing  so. 

"  Don't  make  me  look  at  you  !"  she  said, 
as  they  stood  together.  "How  shall  I  ever 
be  able  to  meet  your  eyes  again  ?  Don't  you 
hate  me  ?  Don't  you  despise  and  loathe  me  ? 
Tell  me  you  do  !  Let  me  at  last  have  justice 
done  to  me  !  I  can't  bear  being  thought  good, 
when  I  am  worse  than  the  worst  of  women." 

Vernon  took  the  candle  from  her  hand  and 
set  it  down  on  the  table.  "  Look  at  me,"  he 
said,  "  and  see  if  you  think  I  hate  you." 

There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  by  which  she 
seemed  conquered  ;  for  with  a  helpless  resig- 
nation she  let  him  put  his  arm  round  her,  and 
let  him  draw  her  toward  himself.  Then  tim- 
idly she  raised  her  face  to  him ;  it  was  like 
a  poor  piteous  child's ;  and  he,  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  a  compassionate  elder  brother, 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  faintly 
faltered,  "  Thank  you." 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  said.  He  pressed 
her  hand  and  was  gone. 


276  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   II. 

following  morning  Vernon  sent  a  line 
to  Miss  Walters,  to  say  that,  unless  she 
would  not  receive  him,  he  would  call  at  the 
Chateau  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  The 
note  in  its  wording  was  altogether  common- 
place ;  and  alleged  as  his  excuse  for  coming 
his  desire  to  see  her  picture.  She  wrote  him 
no  answer,  and  he  appeared  accordingly. 
The  servant's  manner  at  the  door  at  once 
showed  him  he  was  expected,  and  with  a 
beating  heart  he  was  shown  into  her  own 
sitting-room.  There  she  was,  standing  be- 
fore her  easel,  calm  and  graceful.  Again  his 
fears  of  a  painful  meeting  were  dissipated. 
She  had  recovered  all  her  self-control  and 
luxurious  air  of  worldliness ;  while  the  pallor 
in  her  cheeks  and  her  expression  of  languor- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  277 

ous  melancholy  might  have  passed  as  the  ef- 
fects of  a  late  ball,  not  of  sorrow.  Her  hold 
over  Vernon  was  increased  by  this  new  as- 
pect of  her ;  the  touch  of  her  hand  acquired 
a  new  charm  for  him.  He  stood  with  her  by 
her  easel,  and  they  discussed  her  picture. 
The  feeling  and  power  displayed  in  it  made 
a  genuine  impression  on  him,  quite  apart 
from  any  thought  of  the  artist ;  but  connected 
with  her  it  had  a  special  and  startling  mean- 
ing. It  was  but  a  single  figure,  that  of  a 
kneeling  nun ;  who,  despite  her  attitude, 
seemed  less  in  prayer  than  in  meditation. 
There  was  a  crucifix  on  the  wall  above  her  ; 
a  devotional  book  of  some  sort  lay  on  the 
ground  beside  her,  and  tightly  grasped  in  her 
hand  was  a  species  of  small  scourge. 

Presently  came  a  silence.  She  had  moved 
a  few  steps  away,  and  Vernon  was  still  look- 
ing at  the  picture. 

"  Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and  do  you  still 
think  I  am  worth  speaking  to  ?  " 

He  turned  from  the  picture  instantly,  and 
went  toward  her.  She  had  seated  herself  in 
a  chair,  and  her  face  was  bent  downward. 


278  A  Romance  of 

He  bent  down  over  her,  and  taking  her  face 
in  both  his  hands,  he  made  her  look  at  him. 
"  Do  I  still  think  so  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  care 
a  thousand  times  more  for  you  than  I  should 
ever  have  done  otherwise.  I  see  your  good- 
ness and  your  truth  a  thousand  times  more 
clearly.  Only  you  mustn't  talk  of  yourself 
again  in  the  way  that  you  did  last  night." 

He  smiled  a  little,  and  she  smiled  in  an- 
swer. Then  she  said,  sadly,  "  But  it  was 
quite  a  true  way." 

He  drew  a  low  seat  forward,  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  "  Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  "my 
Cynthia,  if  you  will  let  me  call  you  that. 
What  we  all  live  by,  what  we  all  live  down 
to,  or  live  up  to,  is  our  own  conception  of 
what  we  ourselves  are.  If  we  subside  into 
thinking  that  we  are  altogether  lost  and 
wicked,  we  are  sure  sooner  or  later  to  become 
what  we  think  we  are.  To  receive  our  good- 
ness, we  must  realize  that  it  is  not  dead.  We 
must  see  it  still  in  ourselves,  and  see  that  it 
is  still  breathing.  But  sometimes,  if  we  trust 
to  ourselves  only,  this  becomes  impossible. 
Our  goodness  gets  so  placed  that  we  can  no 


The   Nineteenth   Century.  279 

more  see  it,  than  you  can  see  your  own  back 
hair  in  your  looking-glass.  What  we  should 
then  do  is  to  turn  to  another,  and  see  our  own 
reflection  in  the  looking-glass  of  another's 
judgment  of  us.  We  may  thus  discover  a 
truth  we  could  never  have  taught  ourselves. 
We  may  find  that  we  are  worthy  of  our  own 
reverence  still,  and  that  what  is  best  and 
highest  in  us  is  not  killed  so  easily  as  we  had 
thought  it  was.  Let  me  be  the  glass  in  which 
you  will  study  your  own  condition.  Learn  in 
my  reverence  for  you  how  pure  and  noble 
you  are  ;  and  only  in  my  sorrow  for  you  that 
you  may  have  even  shadowed  your  purity." 

She  looked  at  Vernon  with  a  curious  mixed 
expression.  In  her  eyes  was  an  earnest  grati- 
tude, but  on  her  lips  a  faint  smile  of  compas- 
sion. "  Even  yet,"  she  said,  "  I  think  you 
know  little  about  me." 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all  that  I  need 
know.  I  have  no  wish  to  trespass  on  your 
secrets,  or  to  stir  up  memories  that  I  wish  to 
be  laid  to  rest  forever.  Believe  me,  I  can 
see  you  more  clearly  than  you  see  yourself. 
A  woman  may  err  and  yet  not  ruin  her 


280  A  Romance  of 

nature,  nor  are  those  the  holiest  women  who 
need  no  repentance.  None  in  God's  eyes 
have  renounced  what  is  good  and  pure,  who 
still  see  and  cling  for  it.  Certainly  you  do 
that" 

"Yes,"  she  broke  in,  "  you  are  right  there! 
Oh  God,  how  I  have  loved  and  prayed  for  it. 
I  don't  suppose  you  could  find  a  woman  who 
had  a  clearer  sight  of  what  is  good  than  I 
have ;  and  yet  no  one  can  have  shut  herself 
out  from  it  more  hopelessly.  You  say  those 
are  not  the  holiest  women  that  need  no  re- 
pentance. It  may  be  so  ;  I  am  not  even  sure 
of  that.  But,  at  all  events,  good  women,  when 
they  need  repentance,  repent.  They  do  the 
one  thing  that  I  cannot  do." 

"  All  can  repent,"  said  Vernon,  "  except 
those  who  have  made  peace  with  evil." 

"  No  ;  for  we  may  love  what  we  have  no 
power  to  return  to.  Is  not  that  what  Judas 
did  ?  I  am  not,  I  think,  in  any  danger  of 
hanging  myself  :  it  would  not  be  a  graceful 
death.  But  in  my  bed-room  upstairs — this 
is  perfectly  true,  what  I  tell  you — I  have  a 
bottle  of  laudanum  ready,  in  case  I  should 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  281 

find  any  day  that  I  was  unable  to  endure  my- 
self. No  doubt,"  she  went  on,  "  I  could  re- 
pent, if  I  were  only  my  own  mistress.  But 
I  am  not.  You  see,  that  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference. I  am  the  property,  heart  and  soul, 
of  another." 

A  sick  sensation  came  over  Vernon.  He 
looked  at  her  in  silence,  with  an  expression 
of  horrified  inquiry.  She,  however,  had  still 
complete  command  of  herself. 

"  We  are  each  of  us,"  she  continued,  "  as 
we  live  on,  building  up  within  ourselves  a 
secured  self,  like  the  frightful  monster  in 
'  Frankenstein,'  over  whose  actions  we  have 
no  control,  but  for  which  we  are  still  respon- 
sible. Out  of  my  own  past  I  have  built  up 
such  a  monster.  It  is  my  tyrant.  It  dogs 
me  ;  it  strides  after  me.  Though  I  hate  it,  I 
cannot  escape  from  it." 

Vernon  listened  with  a  quick  sense  of  re- 
lief. Her  words  did  nothing  now  but  increase 
his  pleading  earnestness.  "  Hush,  hush  ! "  he 
said.  "  You  must  indeed  not  speak  like  that. 
It  is  weak,  wicked,  foolish.  Listen  to  one 
thing  which  will  force  you  to  see  how  wrong 


282  A  Romance  of 

you  are.  Since  you  have  known  me,  you 
have  done  an  angel's  work.  You  have  breathed 
a  new  life  into  me.  All  my  better  self  has 
gained  strength  again — and  through  your  in- 
fluence. Do  you  think  a  corrupt  tree  can 
bring  forth  good  fruit  ?  " 

"  I "  she  said,  "  and  have  I  been  of  help 

to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  only  knew  it 
last  night — last  night  when  I  parted  from  you 
and  found  myself  alone.  Do  you  know  what 
I  did  then  ?  I  prayed  for  you — upon  my 
knees  for  a  long  time,  and  half  the  night  as 
well,  as  I  was  lying  wakeful.  I  have  always 
been  accustomed  to  say  a  word  or  two  of 
prayer  every  morning,  but  these  latterly  have 
been  cold  and  brief.  They  have  seemed  only 
to  keep  up  a  sort  of  bowing  acquaintance  with 
a  God  that  I  could  hardly  speak  to.  But  last 
night,  when  I  had  you  to  pray  for,  my  words 
and  my  feelings  rose  as  they  have  not  done 
since  my  boyhood  :  and  for  the  first  time  since 
then  I  felt  that  my  prayers  were  answered." 

She  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  gently 
kissed  it, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  283 

"  I  was  awake,"  he  went  on,  "at  the  dull 
gray  daybreak.  I  saw 

'"The  casement  slowly  grow  a  glimmering  square;' 

and  oh,  my  child  of  the  morning,  my  whole 
soul  went  out  to  you.  I  have  become  a  new 
man  for  your  sake  in  one  short  evening." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  she  exclaimed,  "  or 
you  will  make  my  heart  break.  Leave  me  to 
myself.  You  can  do  nothing,  nothing  for 

M 

me. 

"  I  can,"  he  said,  "  and  I  mean  to.  I  am 
not  to  be  frightened  off  so  easily,  nor  does 
what  you  say  discourage  me.  You  talk  of 
your  past,  and  you  say  that  it  is  your  master. 
It  is  so  in  some  degree — such  is  the  case  with 
all  of  us.  But  the  greater  its  power  is,  the 
more  should  that  encourage  you.  For  what 
is  the  past  ?  Are  not  you  every  day,  every 
moment,  creating  it  ?  And  if  your  bad  deeds 
as  they  drift  behind  you  become  a  monsterv 
will  not  your  good  deeds  and  struggles  turn 
behind  you  with  a  legion  of  angels  ?  A  bad 
past  is  like  a  snake,  whose  head  is  the  pres- 
ent. Get  your  foot  on  the  head,  and  the 


284  A  Romance  of 

coils  will  no  longer  crush  you.  Just  consider 
it ;  by  next  year  this  year  will  be  your  past." 

"  What  use,"  she  said,  "  would  be  one  year 
of  good  against  so  many  years  of  bad  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  the  David,"  said  Vernon,  "  that 
will  kill  the  Goliath  who  pursues  you." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  at  the  same  time 
smiled  faintly.  "  Some  animals,"  she  said, 
"when  they  are  caught  in  a  trap,  cannot  be 
induced  to  leave  it,  even  when  the  door  is 
open.  I  am  told  you  cannot  get  horses  out 
of  a  burning  stable.  As  you  said  yourself, 
one  may  have  a  wish  to  do  the  thing  and  yet 
be  without  the  will." 

"  You  have  roused  my  will,"  said  Vernon, 
"  I  will  rouse  yours.  I  will  put  my  arms 
round  you,  and  carry  you  off  by  force.  We 
will  have  a  moral  elopement." 

"  You  talk  of  eloping ;  but  who  can  elope 
from  self?  Will  you  ever  give  me  strength 
to  outrun  my  own  memories?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  is  the  very  thing  I 
will  do.  Let  me  help  you  to  form  a  new 
present,  and  while  that  is  forming  let  us  con- 
sent to  bury  the  past.  Then,  by-and-bye, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  285 

when  we  again  go  back  to  it,  and  roll  the 
stone  away  from  the  door  of  the  sepulchre, 
you  will  find  no  festering  corpse,  but  only  the 
grave-clothes  purified,  and  two  white  angels 
keeping  watch  over  them." 

He  spoke  with  a  mixture  of  so  much  fire 
and  tenderness  that  she  seemed  at  last  con- 
quered by  it.  Her  face  softened,  her  lips  re- 
laxed and  trembled,  and  her  eyes,  wide  open, 
began  to  fill  with  tears.  His,  too,  moistened. 
Then  slowly  she  bent  forward  toward  him. 
"  Come  to  me,"  she  said.  "  Come  nearer  to 
me." 

He  slipped  from  his  low  seat,  and  knelt  close 
to  her.  They  might  have  passed,  so  far  as 
grouping  went,  for  a  mother  with  her  child 
praying.  Like  a  mother,  too,  with  utter  frank- 
ness and  irreverency,  she  gave  him  a  single 
kiss,  and  passed  her  hand  over  his  hair. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  are  very  good 
to  me.  I  will  struggle  and  hope  against  hope." 

Vernon  resumed  his  seat,  and,  the  little 
scene  over,  they  were  both  calm  again. 

"  I  shall  not,"  he  said  presently,  "  be  a  very 
hard  taskmaster.  You  will  let  me  walk  and 


286  A  Romance  of 

talk  with  you ;  you  will  let  me  lend  you 
books,  and  if  you  are  sad  and  desponding, 
you  will  let  me  raise  your  spirits.  Let  us  try 
a  quiet  life  together  here,  on  these  terms, 
and  we  will  see  what  comes  of  it.  If  you 
want  to  tell  me  more  about  yourself,  tell  me. 
If  not,  I  will  never  trouble  you  with  my 
curiosity.  And  you  too — you  must  do  your 
part  by  me.  I  want  help  just  as  much  as  you 
do,  and  you  if  you  will  can  give  it  me."  He 
paused  here,  and  there  was  a  debate  in  him 
of  some  moments.  There  was  something  he 
was  prompted  to  say  by  impulse,  and  withheld 
from  saying  by  judgment.  At  last  his  eye 
fixed  itself  on  her  exquisite  hand  and  wrist, 
as  they  lay  before  him  on  her  dress  of  gray 
velvet.  His  impulse  gained  the  day. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  that  this 
would  be  possible ;  do  you  think  that  you 
and  I  would  ever  make  a  life  together?"  . 

"  Don't  ask  me  now,"  she  said.  "  How  can 
I  tell  you  what  might  happen  some  day  ?  " 

"  Some  day  !  What — must  I  wait  for  some 
day?"  The  feeling  that  had  been  a  spark 
was  now  a  flame  already.  "  Cynthia — tell 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  287 

me,  my  loved  one — have  you  no  love  for  me 
now?" 

She  looked  at  him  mournfully  for  a  short 
time,  and  in  silence.  "  Surely,"  she  said  at 
length,  "you  do  not  doubt  my  affection.  I 
have  said  to  you  what  I  thought  I  should 
never  have  said  to  any  human  being — what  I 
have  not  had  courage  as  yet  to  say  even  to 
God.  I  would  willingly  think  you  had  moved 
me  to  the  deepest  of  all  feelings  for  you. 
What  may  happen  some  day  I  cannot  tell, 
but  the  special  thing  has  not  happened  yet." 

"  And  yet,"  he  pleaded,  "  you  have  kissed 
me  as  a  lover  might." 

"  If  I  have,"  she  said,  "the  more  shame  for 
me.  I  dare  give  you  nothing  at  present  ap- 
proaching what  you  mean  by  love.  It  would 
be  unfit  for  you  to  accept  of  me.  Take  my 
friendship,  my  gratitude,  my  affection.  They 
may  not  be  worth  much,  but  they  at  least  will 
not  dishonor  you." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  can  wait.  I  will  bide 
my  time,  and  till  I  see  some  new  sign  in  you, 
I  will  never  again  trouble  you  with  my  im- 
portunity." 


2  88  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   III. 

"\TOT  many  days  had  elapsed  before  Ver« 
•*•  ^  non  wrote  thus  in  his  diary  : — "  I  am  like 
a  pinnace  that  has  slid  out  of  a  storm  into  a 
glassy  calm.  I  have  a  sense  of  shelter  around 
me,  as  of  crags  and  gleaming  woods. 

"  '  Hie  fessas  non  vincula  naves 
Ulla  tenant :  una  non  alligat  ancora  morsu.' 

"  I  have  at  last  found  rest  in  finding  some- 
thing for  which  to  labor,  and  in  the  literal 
sense  of  the  expression  it  is  a  labor  of  love. 
Love — that  hackneyed  word  ! — a  week  ago 
what  a  wretched  sound  it  had  for  me;  and 
now,  as  I  hear  or  speak  of  it,  it  throbs  with 
meaning  like  an  organ-pipe.  The  choicest 
lamb  of  all  the  flock  had  lost  itself.  My 
wanderer,  my  white  wanderer,  I  am  carrying 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  289 

you  home  to  the  fold.  My  holy  and  precious 
burden,  you  little  know  what  you  have  done 
for  me.  I  had  strayed  from  the  fold  myself ; 
I  had  lost  all  count  of  its  whereabouts ;  but 
now,  with  you  in  my  arms,  I  am  finding  my 
way  back  again.  It  is  for  your  sake  only 
that  God  begins  to  look  on  me ! " 

Vernon  smiled  as  he  re-read  this,  and  then 
continued  writing.  "  During  the  present 
year  I  have  made  several  expeditions  with 
her  aunt  and  her.  I  have  been  their  guide, 
and  have  shown  them  some  of  the  most  strik- 
ing places  to  be  found  within  driving  dis- 
tance. We  have  seen  old  fortified  villages, 
with  their  girdle  of  brown  ramparts,  rising  on 
hill-tops  over  their  own  gray  olive-yards.  We 
have  explored  for  miles  the  windings  of 
happy  valleys,  walled  on  each  side  with 
hanging  pine-woods,  and  paved  with  mead- 
ows of  the  intensest  green  imaginable,  and 
we  have  wandered  under  willows  and  elders, 
by  the  margin  of  snow-fed  rivers.  She  is  grow- 
ing happy,  she  is  growing  at  peace  with  her- 
self. I  have  watched  her  violet  eyes,  and  her 
cheeks  like  rose-leaves,  and  I  have  seen  how 


290  A  Romance  of 

"'  Beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Has  passed  into  her  face.' 

More  than  this — I  have  been  twice  with  her 
to  the  chapel  in  the  cork-wood,  for  vespers 
and  benediction,  and  I  have  seen  her  pray- 
ing. I  too — had  I  only  been  alone,  my  God, 
I  could  have  prayed  too.  My  care  for  her 
has  opened  my  heart  again,  has  revived  my 
faith  again.  Surely  I  know,  and  see,  and 
with  my  whole  mind  assent  to  this,  that  what 
we  are  and  what  we  make  ourselves  is  some- 
thing of  infinite  and  eternal  moment.  Vice 
and  virtue  are  as  heaven  and  hell  asunder. 
Space,  with  its  million  stars,  is  as  nothing  to 
the  gulf  between  them  ;  and  Thou,  my  Judge 
Eternal,  it  must  be  that  thou  art  all  in  all. 
Soften  her  heart !  Cleanse  her  from  all  in- 
iquity !  Let  me  bring  her  back  to  thee  t 
Mother  of  Purity,  she  has  knelt  to  thee  also. 
Oh  mother  inviolate,  counsellor  of  them  that 
weep,  refuge  of  sinners,  pray  for  her! 

"  She  is  with  me  all  the  time  I  am  writing. 
I  feel  her  in  the  air  near  me.  She  surrounds 
me  ;  she  is  touching  me  whether  her  body  be 
there  or  no.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  291 

describe  what  has  happened.  I  could  almost 
believe,  not  in  the  transmigration  of  souls, 
but  somehow  in  the  transmigration  of  bodies  ; 
for  fanciful  as  the  expression  sounds,  it  seems 
at  times  to  me  as  if  it  were  her  blood  that 
was  beating  in  my  temples.  A  part  of  her 
body  seems  to  be  mixed  with  mine.  When 
I  am  half  asleep,  if  I  put  my  hands  to  my 
face,  it  seems  to  be  her  white  hand  caressing 
me  ;  and  sometimes  I  have  started  up  in  the 
night  feeling  almost  certain  that  her  lips  were 
on  mine,  kissing  me." 

Moods,  motives,  and  affections  are  gen 
erally  complex  things.  With  Vernon,  in  the 
present  case,  they  were  so  in  a  marked  de- 
gree, as  may  be  detected  in  the  above  ex- 
tract. But  any  one  who  had  judged  him 
merely  from  what  he  thus  wrote  of  himself 
would  have  probably  done  him  injustice. 
The  passionate  sentiments  which  he  indulged 
himself  in  committing  to  paper,  he  committed 
to  paper  only.  He  kept  his  promise  to  Miss 
Walters,  alike  in  letter  and  in  spirit.  He 
avoided  all  allusion,  not  only  to  the  painful 
expression  she  had  made  to  him,  but  also  to 


292  A  Romance  of 

his  own  feelings  with  regard  to  her.  His  one 
constant  effort,  in  all  his  intercourse  with  her, 
was  to  direct  her  thoughts  from  anything 
that  was  personal  to  either  of  them,  and  to 
fix  them  on  general  questions  and  the  wider 
interests  of  life.  He  made  her  dwell  on  such 
subjects  as  poetry,  scenery,  and  pictures.  He 
discussed  various  characters  with  her  in  fic- 
tion and  in  history,  and  the  various  tastes, 
qualities,  and  occupations  that  make  men's 
lives  so  many-colored.  He  tried  to  fill  her 
mind  with  a  yet  graver  order  of  questions— 
the  various  social  problems  that  are  prepar- 
ing the  modern  mind,  and  to  extend  by  this 
means  her  ideas  of  individual  duty.  He  of- 
ten spoke  to  her  also  of  the  chief  axiom  of 
religion,  and  the  history  of  the  Christian 
theologies  ;  but  he  was  careful  to  approach 
them  on  their  intellectual  side  only,  and  to 
make  no  appeal  to  her  feelings.  But  despite 
the  impersonal  nature  of  this  conversation, 
it  became  inspired,  under  his  management, 
with  a  delicate,  earnest  devotion  that  is  often 
wanting  to  more  direct  love-making.  It  would 
be  indeed  wrong  in  this  case  to  say  he  was 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  293 

making  love  at  all.  An  impression  of  love, 
he  doubtless  did  convey  to  her,  because,  after 
its  own  fashion,  his  nature  was  then  stirred 
with  it ;  but  he  did  not  do  this  intentionally. 
What  he  intended  to  express,  and  what  was 
always  present  with  him,  was  an  anxious  ten- 
der solicitude  that  whatever  was  best  and 
purest  should  be  what  she  most  admired. 
He  became  almost  morbidly  sensitive  to  any- 
thing that  had  the  least  taint  in  its  beauty, 
and  he  tried  by  his  presence  to  inspire  her 
with  a  repulsion  for  it.  He  seemed  as  subtle 
and  insidious  at  suggesting  good  thoughts  to 
her  as  the  devil  is  supposed  to  be  in  suggest- 
ing evil.  As  to  evil,  especially  of  the  kind 
she  was  in  danger  from,  it  was  his  wish  that 
she  should  not  so  much  condemn  as  forget  it. 
The  wound  would  heal  better,  he  thought,  if 
its  progress  was  not  examined  ;  and  every 
subject  which  they  thought  of  or  discussed 
together  he  tried  to  administer  to  her  as  a 
sacrament  of  self-respect  He  became  too, 
in  this  way,  a  revelation  to  himself.  Subtle 
moral  instincts,  which  had  been  for  years  dor- 
mant, and  as  he  thought  dead,  now  woke  to 


:>  94  A  Romance  of 

life  again ;  and  he  found  himself  once  more 
regarding  the  world  with  the  solemn  earnest- 
ness of  his  boyhood. 

Beneath  the  surface,  however,  there  were 
certain  things  that  troubled  him.  Now  and 
again  her  manner  jarred  on  him  slightly, 
though  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  ex- 
plain why  to  himself ;  he  had  also  two  sources 
of  a  more  defined  uneasiness.  One  of  these 
was  the  suspicion,  which  he  could  not  be  sure 
was  false,  that  in  speaking  of  religious  ques- 
tions he  had  aroused  a  stronger  faith  than  he 
felt  in  order  that  her  faith  might  gain  strength 
from  it.  The  other  was  the  discovery,  on  his 
part,  that  she  was  singularly  shrewd  in  her  ap- 
prehension of  religious  difficulties — shrewder 
indeed  than  he  conceived  a  woman  had  any 
right  to  be  ;  and  often,  when  she  insisted  on 
the  grace  of  nature  of  some  of  these,  he  was 
tempted  to  borrow  an  answer  from  Dr.  John- 
son : — "  That  may  be !  but  I  don't  see  how 
you  should  know  it."  He  several  times  smiled 
to  catch  himself  feeling  this  ;  and  he  at  once 
translated  his  temper  into  the  thought  that 
really  had  excited  it — "  She  has  logic  enough 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  295 

to  see  her  way  into  an  objection,  but  not  logic 
enough  to  see  her  way  out  of  it." 

These  matters  at  times  made  his  mind 
misgive  him  ;  but  they  could  not  embitter, 
except  for  passing  moments,  the  new  life  he 
was  leading.  Every  morning  when  he  awoke 
there  was  a  day  of  duty  before  him,  but  it  was 
duty  allied  with  the  keenest  form  of  pleasure. 
His  imagination  wove  for  him  a  luxurious 
world  of  enchantment  ;  and  his  conscience 
looked  down  on  it  and  said  that  it  was  very 
good.  He  seemed  to  himself  like  a  vapid 
votary  praying  in  a  temple  of  roses,  and  he 
several  times  repeated  an  expression  that 
Campbell  had  used  to  him  :  "  I  am  leading 
a  consecrated  life." 

He  was  in  this  condition,  whatever  view 
may  be  taken  of  it,  when  he  received  one 
morning  a  letter  from  Campbell  himself. 
This  was  the  first  news  of  him  since  the 
morning  when  he  had  set  out  for  San  Remo. 
That  was  not  a  fortnight  ago  ;  but  to  Vernon 
it  seemed  years  :  and  yet,  so  much  meanwhile 
had  his  own  affairs  absorbed  him,  that  he  had 
not  had  time  to  wonder  at  Campbell's  silence. 


296  A  Romance  of 

"  Well,"  thought  Vernon,  as  he  surveyed 
the  envelope,  ' '  his  post-mark  is  San  Remo. 
That  at  least  is  of  happy  augury."  Here, 
however,  he  was  not  quite  accurate,  as  the 
date  of  the  letter  showed  him.  He  had  mis- 
read the  post-mark.  It  was  Sorrento,  not 
San  Remo.  The  letter  ran  thus  :— 

"  MY  DEAR  VERNON, — I  should  have  written  long  ago 
to  you,  could  I  have  written  with  any  certainty.  I  have 
been  waiting  till  I  could  do  that ;  but  I  may  as  well  wait 
no  longer.  I  am  not  yet  in  Hell ;  still  less  am  I  in  Para- 
dise. You  must  think  of  me  as  one  of  those  who  are — 
not  contented,  but  still  hopeful  in  the  flame.  When  I 
left  you,  I  returned  to  Cannes  to  collect  my  luggage,  and 
then,  among  my  letters,  I  found  the  following  : — '  The 
places  of  the  person  in  whom  you  take  an  interest  have 
changed  since  you  were  last  told  of  them.  She  will  not 
be  at  San  Remo,  and  she  is  anxious  that  you  should  be 
told  of  this,  as  she  has  heard  of  your  movements,  and  of 
course  knows  the  cause  of  them.  She  is  very  anxious 
also  about  another  thing,  and  one  which  I  beg  in  advance 
you  will  not  let  discourage  you.  She  is  very  anxious  that 
at  present  you  should  not  know  where  she  is,  and  that  at 
present  you  should  not  even  try  to  see  her.  You  could, 
no  doubt,  by  taking  some  trouble,  discover  her  ;  but  if 
you  regard  her  wishes  you  will  certainly  not  do  so  ; 
neither  will  you  do  so  if  you  regard  your  own  interests. 
My  only  fear  is  that  this  note  may  not  reach  you  before 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  297 

you  are  already  on  her  traces.  It  is  for  your  sake  I  am 
writing,  even  more  than  for  hers.  Were  I  not  sure  that 
by  pressing  your  suit  now  you  would  be  insuring  your 
own  disappointment,  I  should  not  be  so  urgent  that  you 
should  yield  to  her  strange  fancies.  She  is  a  curious 
girl.  I  don't  in  the  least  feel  that  I  know  her  ;  but  this 
I  do  know,  that,  however  she  regards  you,  it  is  at  least 
not  with  indifference.  You  have  moved  her  in  some  way, 
and  I  think  very  deeply ;  so  it  is  well  worth  your  while 
to  have  a  little  quiet  patience.'  I  need  not,  my  dear 
Vernon,  quote  you  any  more  of  the  letter.  The  rest  was 
only  to  tell  me  how  she  had  heard  of  my  movements,  and 
that  she  herself  was  leaving  Florence  for  Sorrento.  Well 
— what  I  did  was  to  go  straight  off  to  Sorrento  myself, 
that  I  might  learn  more  from  my  informant.  I  have  not 
learned  much — at  least  not  much  that  I  can  communicate. 
The  details  are  all  too  slight  to  be  conveyed  by  writing. 
But  I  have  hope,  I  believe  that  I  have  hope.  Ah,  Vernon, 
the  love  of  a  woman  that  knows  no  evil,  almost  makes 
evil  incomprehensible  to  one's  self.  Soft,  tender,  and 
innocent  as  my  friend  is,  the  thought  of  her  is  like  a  fire 
upon  some  of  my  past  life.  Tastes  and  habits,  which  I 
was  long  used  to  laugh  over,  now  only  fill  me  with  indig- 
nant, burning  shame.  I  don't  quite  know  how  long  I 
shall  stay  here.  I  am  awaiting  more  news.  I  mean  to  be 
patient,  and  not  to  attempt  hurrying  on  things  ;  and  if 
nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  my  remaining  here,  I  may  pos- 
sibly find  myself  in  a  week's  time  on  my  way  back  to 
England.  In  that  case  I  will  propose  myself  to  you  for 
a  day  or  two." 


298  A  Romance  of 

This  letter  set  Vernon  thinking.  But  a 
few  short  days  ago*,  the  feeling  expressed  in 
it  would  have  been  a  riddle  to  him  ;  and  now, 
as  though  a  sixth  sense  had  been  added  to 
him,  he  saw  it  all  clearly.  "  And  yet,"  he  re- 
flected, "  between  Campbell's  case  and  my 
own  what  a  difference  ! — more  than  a  differ- 
ence— what  a  contrast!"  He  turns  to  an- 
other, and  finds  she  raises  him.  I  turn  to 
another,  and  find  I  must  raise  her.  "Still,"  he 
continued,  "  here  is  one  bright  thought.  Let 
me  take  it  as  a  happy  omen.  If  love  has  on 
Campbell  the  effect  he  says  it  has — the  effect 
of  a  fire-cleansing  baptism — her  sins  surely 
are  fast  being  washed  away.  Her  transgres- 
sions will  vanish  like  a  cloud,  and  like  a  thick 
cloud  her  sins.  The  shadow  on  her  life  will 
be  as  though  it  had  never  been.  No — not 
so  ;  let  me  think  this  rather,  that  the  fire  of 
repentance  will  make  the  gold  of  her  purity 

still  purer.    And  yet "  his  train  of  thought 

seemed  here  to  halt  for  a  moment — "  I  do 
not  yet  know  her  thoroughly.  I  know  she 
has  much  to  repent  of.  I  know  she  has  much 
to  purge  away.  It  is  not  that  knowledge  that 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  299 

troubles  me.  I  should  love  her  far  more 
could  1  bring  her  safely  home  again  than  I 
should  have  done  if  she  had  never  wandered. 
What  is  it,  then  ?  Or  is  it  nothing — a  fancy 
merely  ?  Is  she  not  safe  home  already  ?  I 
cannot  tell.  There  is  something  in  her  still 
remote  from  me.  There  is  some  '  untravelled 
region  of  her  mind  '  which  I  cannot  get  to. 
When  I  am  with  her,  when  I  am  face  to  face 
with  herself,  I  am  conscious  of  it,  I  know  not 
how.  I  feel  always  as  if  there  were  some 
third  presence  watching  us — some  ghost  that 
will  not  reveal  itself.  Ah,  Cynthia,  will  you 
never  be  quite  open  with  me  ?  Must  your 
eyes  still  have  glances  that  I  cannot  tell  the 
meaning  of  ?  Must  my  heart  still  ache,  and 
still  be  anxious  as  I  think  of  you  ? " 

He  was  wandering  in  his  garden  when  the 
above  thoughts  invaded  him,  with  the  leaves 
of  Campbell's  letter  still  fluttering  in  his 
hand.  The  uneasiness  he  felt  was  a  surprise 
to  him,  dimming  all  his  prospects  like  an  un- 
looked-for driving  mist,  and  he  was  trying  to 
rouse  his  spirits  by  the  morning  air  and  sun- 
shine. At  this  juncture  a  note  was  brought 


300  A  Romance  of 

him  from  Miss  Walters.  "  I  have  got,"  she 
wrote,  "  a  small  piece  of  news  to  tell  you.  It 
is  not  very  tragic,  but  still  I  am  sorry  for  it. 
My  aunt  and  I  are  going  away  for  a  few  days, 
to  stay  at  San  Remo  with  Mrs.  Charles 
Crane.  She's  a  connection  of  that  slangy 
little  woman  that  you  seemed  to  find  so 
amusing ;  but  is  not  in  the  least  like  her. 
She  is  related  to  my  aunt  in  some  way,  and 
is  a  very  old  and  a  very  true  friend  of  mine. 
She's  somehow  related,  too,  to  poor  Jack 
Stapleton,  whom  I  know  you  dislike  so  ;  but 
that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Well — it  can't 
be  helped.  Go  we  must,  and  that  either  to- 
morrow or  next  day.  I  want  to  know  if  you 
will  come  over  this  morning,  so  that  we  may 
make  the  most  of  the  little  time  that  is  left 
to  us.  You  needn't  go  to  the  house ;  but  you 
will  find  me,  at  about  eleven,  by  the  little  bay 
with  the  tunnel — the  place  where  I  caught 
you  trespassing.  Ah,  those  happy  days  that 
I  have  spent  with  you  !  I  hate  to  think  that 
there  is  to  be  even  so  short  a  break  in  them  ! 
Dear,  dear  friend — come  to  me.  I  do  want 
you  so." 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  301 

Vernon's  anxieties,  though  somewhat  vague 
in  their  nature,  had  had  one  effect  upon  him 
more  intense  than  themselves.  In  proportion 
as  they  seemed  to  divide  him  from  Miss  Wal- 
ters, they  made  -  his  desire  to  be  close  to  her 
more  keen  and  more  absorbing  than  ever  : 
and  the  above  note  struck  in  his  life  a  flash 
of  returning  sunlight.  The  time  she  had 
named  for  the  meeting  was  but  half  an  hour 
distant ;  and  there  wanted  still  ten  minutes 
to  it  when  he  found  himself  at  the  trysting- 
place.  Early  as  he  was,  however,  she  was 
there  before  him.  She  was  sitting  on  a  rustic 
bench,  with  an  open  book  on  her  lap;  but  she 
seemed  not  to  be  reading,  only  watching  the 
sea-water.  The  sight  of  her  at  once  took 
him  out  of  his  solitary  thoughts,  and  as  if  by. 
magic  set  him  down  in  a  new  world.  The 
change  was  wonderful,  and  gave  him  an  in- 
toxicating sense  as  though  he  were  being  car- 
ried through  the  air  rapidly  to  some  untold 
distance.  She  rose  to  meet  him  with  a  bright, 
soft  smile  ;  and  every  movement  of  her  lips 
and  figuer  charmed  him  with  an  insidious 
magic.  She  had  on  a  new  dress,  of  a  delicate 


302  A  Romance  of 

shade  of  brown,  which  fitted  her  to  perfec- 
tion. Her  hat,  her  gloves,  and  the  border  of 
her  pocket-handkerchief  were  all  of  the  same 
color.  From  the  worldly  point  of  view  she 
had  never  looked  more  fascinating.  She  read 
his  admiration  in  his  eyes,  and  she  met  his 
glance  with  a  more  than  usual  tenderness. 
She  held  his  hand  too,  in  greeting  him,  with 
a  more  lingering  pressure. 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said  presently,  "that  you 
like  my  frock.  It's  my  maid's  handiwork." 
And  then  turning  her  back  on  him,  "  Does 
it  fit  well  ?  Tell  me." 

The  temptation  was  too  much  for  Vernon. 
He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  let  it 
slip  down  to  her  waist.  She  made  no  strug- 
gle ;  he  felt  her  yield  to  his  touch ;  and  still 
holding  her  he  led  her  back  to  the  seat 

"  You  are  looking  beautiful  to-day,"  he 
murmured. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  said.  "  I  should 
like  your  last  impressions  to  be  nice  of  me. 
Don't  you  admire  my  rose  too?" 

It  was  in  her  button-hole,  and  Vernon 
stooped  forward  to  smell  it.  As  he  was 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  303 

slowly  drawing  back,  her  breath  stirred  his 
hair.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  were 
close  to  hers.  Neither  of  them  spoke  :  they 
each  drew  a  breath  sharply  :  in  another  in- 
stant the  outer  world  was  dark  to  them,  and 
their  whole  universe  was  nothing  but  a  single 
kiss. 

It  might  have  seemed  natural,  when  they 
again  woke  to  daylight,  that  Vernon  should 
now  renew  in  words  his  former  declaration  of 
affection.  But  for  some  secret  cause  he  was 
not  moved  to  do  so.  The  occurrence  just 
narrated  had  not  put  him  in  trim  for  it ;  and 
the  only  sign,  when  they  spoke,  of  what  had 
just  passed  between  them,  was  not  in  the  sub- 
ject spoken  about,  but  in  the  peculiar  tone  of 
their  voices. 

Vernon  said,  "  Had  you  been  long  waiting, 
when  I  came  ?" 

"  About  twenty  minutes.  I  was  out  earlier 
than  I  thought  I  should  be.  I  brought  a 
book  with  me  and  read  a  page,  and  since 
then  I  have  been  watching  the  water.  The 
little  bay  is  like  a  pool  of  crystal.  Those 
rifts  in  the  rocks — I  have  been  fancying  them 


304  A  Romance  of 

sea-nymphs'  grottoes  !  And  the  open  sea 
outside — how  broad,  and  blue,  and  free,  and 
how  gayly  the  sunlight  dances  on  it !  Do 
you  see  what  I  have  been  reading  ?  It  is  the 
translation  you  made  for  me  from  the  Odys- 
sey, of  the  journey  of  Hermes  to  Calypso. 
This  is  just  the  day,  and  this  is  just  the  place 
for  it.  Read  it  over  again  to  me." 

She  closed  her  eyes  to  listen,  and  Vemon 
read  : 


"  '  The  slayer  of  Argus  on  Pieria's  crest 

Pitched  for  a  moment,  then  from  off  the  steep 
Dropped  like  a  diver  to  the  sea's  broad  breast, 

With  feathered  ankles,  and  the  wand  of  sleep ; 
And  as  a  sea-gull  fishing  skims  its  way 

Over  the  seedless  fields  where  none  may  reap, 
Wetting  its  white  wings  with  the  puffs  of  spray, 

So  went  the  God,  breathing  the  breeze  and  brine, 
Until  at  last  he  reached  the  isle,  that  lay 

Very  far  off,  in  strange  seas  sapphirine. 
There  on  the  beach  he  lighted,  and  he  went 

Straight  to  the  cave  where  dwelt  the  nymph  divine 
With  the  renowned  locks  luxuriant : 

And  in  the  cave  he  found  her.     At  her  side 
A  great  fire  burned  of  smelling  wood  that  sent 

A  fragrance  of  split  cedar  far  and  wide  ; 
And  she  meanwhile  with  lips  of  melody 

Sate  singing,  and  a  golden  shuttle  plied  I ' " 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  305 

Miss  Walters  here  interrupted  him,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  think,"  she  said,  "  I  should  have 
made  a  very  good  Greek  nymph.  I  should 
have  looked  very  pretty  in  the  water.  How 
delightful  to  have  winged  our  way  as  Hermes 
did,  and  to  have  felt  the  sea-wind  blowing 
over  all  our  limbs,  and  to  have  been  at  peace 
with  nature.  Calypso  would  yield  herself  to 
all  the  beauty  round  her.  She  had  no  feud 
with  the  gladness  of  the  violet-colored  sea, 
and  the  sunshine,  nor  with  her  lawny  uplands 
of  green  parsley  and  violets.  Had  I  been 
a  Calypso  I  might  have  sheltered  you  as  a 
Ulysses — for  you  know  you  are  a  wanderer, 
if  you  would  not  have  been  too  proud  to 
share  a  cave  with  me." 

Vernon  glanced  at  her  for  a  moment,  and 
her  look  certainly  was  curiously  in  keeping 
with  her  wishes.  But  his  eyes  did  not  dwell 
on  her.  He  abruptly  folded  his  arms,  and 
subsided  into  complete  silence.  Presently 
his  brows  contracted  ;  his  face  assumed  a 
look  of  distress  and  pain,  and  then  again  this 
softened  into  sadness.  At  last  he  turned  to 
Miss  Walters,  and  spoke  very  tenderly. 


20 


306  A  Romance  of 

"  Cynthia,"  he  began,  "  there  are  certain 
subjects  about  which  we  agreed  to  be  silent 
for  a  time." 

She  interrupted  him.  "  I  know  there  are," 
she  said,  a  little  wearily ;  "  but  don't  let  us 
talk  about  them  now."  And  as  she  said  this 
she  moved  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

The  sense  of  her  touch  was  like  a  dissolv- 
ing charm.  It  might  have  been  Calypso  her- 
self that  was  pressing  so  softly  to  his  side : 
Calypso  acclimatized  to  the  air  of  the  present 
century.  He  felt  a  thrill  pass  from  her  body 
to  his,  and  a  strong  impulse  was  rising  in  him 
to  fold  her  once  more  in  his  arms.  But  im- 
pulse was  this  time  thwarted,  and  will  gained 
the  victory. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going 
to  talk  of  nothing  that  will  pain  you  ;  but  I 
want  to  ask  you  one  simple  question — per- 
haps two." 

His  eyes  as  he  spoke  were  full  of  a  pure, 
grave  earnestness,  and  as  she  caught  their 
expression,  she  gently  drew  back  a  little.  He 
now  put  his  hand  out  to  her,  but  she  would 
not  take  it.  She  only  said,  still  speaking 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  307 

wearily,  "  Well — ask  what  you  want  to  ask 
me." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  began,  "  that 
when  first  I  knew  you,  you  told  me  you  were 
unhappy.  I  want  to  ask  if  you  are  at  all  re 
stored  to  happiness  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  very  happy  with  you,"  she 
said,  "  very,  very,  very !  I  never  thought 
when  I  came  here  that  I  should  ever  be  so 
happy  again.  Then  all  the  world  was  blank 
and  dark  and  hateful  to  me ;  and  now  this 
place — these  delicious  gardens.  I  have  grown 
to  love  them  ;  and  it  is  you  that  has  made  me 
do  so." 

When  Vernon  next  spoke  he  did  so  with 
more  embarrassment.  He  even  blushed  a 
little,  and  his  words  came  slowly.  "  Tell  me 
this  too,"  he  said.  "  Do  not  you  find  that 
the  memories  and  the  thoughts  that  troubled 
you  have  passed  away  like  a  dream  ?  They 
have  been  no  real  part  of  your  pure  high  na- 
ture. You  have  had  but  to  shake  your  wings, 
and  you  have  soared  away  from  them." 

"  While  you  are  with  me,"  she  said,  "  such 
things  never  trouble  me.  You  always  give 


308  A  Romance  of 

me  a  sense  of  safety  and  protection,  as 
though  your  arms  were  round  me.  I  can 
venture  to  take  a  happy  interest  in  all  that  I 
once  cared  for ;  and  the  shadows  that  used  to 
threaten  me  are  obliged  to  keep  their  dis- 
tance. Even  when  I  am  alone  at  night  they 
know  that  I  am  going  to  meet  you  in  the 
morning,  and  that  now,  when  I  wake  up,  I 
have  something  each  day  to  look  forward  to. 
It  is  your  doing — yes,  yours — the  whole  of 
this." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  if  I  have 
been  of  any  help  to  you  ;  but  this  new  peace 
of  mind  surely  does  not  depend  upon  me  ? 
What  I  want  to  feel  sure  of  is,  that  you  have 
recovered  your  old  trust  in  yourself,  and  that 
you  are  again  reconciled  with  your  best  and 
purest  nature." 

"  You  have  taught  me,"  she  said,  "  to  love 
what  is  best  and  purest.  I  shall  go  on  loving 
them  if  you  are  there  to  encourage  me.  I 
shall  love  them  for  your  sake." 

"  What  on  earth,"  he  said,  "  have  I  got  to 
do  with  it  ?  You  hardly,  I  think,  understand 
my  question.  Good  is  good,  no  matter  what 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  309 

I  think  about  it ;  and  you  had  loved  it,  and 
hated  its  opposite,  long  before  you  had  ever 
heard  of  my  existence.  Isn't  that  so  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  she  said.  "  By  nature,  I  think,  I 
was  a  very  good  person." 

"  Well  then,  what  I  want  is  that  you  should 
recover  your  own  nature.  It  is  this  that  I 
have  asked  of  God,  in  my  prayers  for  you. 
I  wish  you  to  love  goodness  for  its  own  sake 
and  for  yours.  Do  you  think  virtue  is  virtue 
or  purity  is  purity  to  us,  if  we  value  them 
only  as  the  taste  or  the  toy  of  another  ? 
What  I  want  you  to  say  to  me  is  not  "  I  love 
virtue  because  you  love  it ;  "  but  "  I  love  you 
because  you  love  virtue." 

She  hung  her  head  for  a  moment  as  if  lost 
in  thought,  and  he  watched  for  her  answer. 
Presently  there  broke  from  her  a  little  soft 
murmur  of  petulance.  "  Why  do  you  vex 
me  ? "  she  said  ;  "  you  are  spoiling  our  last 
morning."  And  then  raising  her  eyes  she 
fixed  them  full  upon  him.  As  he  met  their 
gaze  they  seemed  to  expand  and  deepen,  and 
soften  second  by  second  into  a  liquid  tender- 
ness. Her  lips  parted  a  little,  a  flush  stole 


310  A  Romance  of 

over  her  cheek,  she  opened  her  arms  as  if  to 
call  him  to  herself,  and  at  last,  in  a  breathless 
whisper,  she  said  "  Come  ! "  She  saw  that 
he  did  not  stir,  and  she  moved  her  head  im- 
periously. "  Come,"  she  repeated,  "  come 
closer.  I  want  you  here.  There  is  some- 
thing I  wish  to  tell  you." 

He  did  as  she  commanded  ;  he  moved 
quite  close  to  her,  and  in  another  instant  her 
fair  arms  were  round  him,  pressing  him  to 
her  breathing  bosom.  Her  lips  were  close  to 
his  ear.  "  My  own  one,"  she  said,  "  I  love 
you  ; "  and  still  holding  him,  and  almost  in 
the  same  breath,  "  you  must  pay  me,"  she 
said,  "  for  having  told  you  that.  Kiss  me— 
kiss  me  on  the  mouth,  and  say  that  you  love 
me  too." 

In  lovers'  ejaculations  there  is  considerable 
sameness  probably.  It  may  be  enough  to 
say  that  Vernon's  response  had  all  in  it  that 
could  mark  the  most  earnest  feeling  ;  and  for 
a  few  delightful  moments  her  embrace  brought 
perfect  peace  to  him.  He  had  no  thought 
except  that  she  was  holding  him. 

"  My  own    one,"  she  went   on    presently, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  311 

*  this  has  come  at  last ;  but  it  has  been  grow- 
ing up  in  me  ever  since  I  saw  you.  My  first 
dislike  of  you  at  Monte  Carlo  was  only  the 
other  side  of  attraction.  I  wanted  you  for 
myself — I'm  sure  it  must  have  been  that 
really,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  in 
unworthy  company."  At  last  her  arms  re- 
leased him,  and  the  two  exchanged  glances. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  murmured,  "are  you  happy 
now?" 

"Yes,  and  no,"  he  said,  and  there  was  then 
a  long  silence.  "  Cynthia,  even  yet  you  have 
not  answered  my  question." 

"  What  question  ?  "  she  said.  "  Do  you 
mean  if  I  love  goodness  ?  Oh,  if  I  do  not 
yet,  (and  she  pressed  his  hand  to  her  lips) 
"you  shall  teach  me  to.  You  shall  teach  me 
everything.  You  shall  do  exactly  what  you 
will  with  me.  I  will  follow  you  like  a  dog. 
I  will  breathe  your  breath,  I  will  think  your 
thoughts,  I  will  only  live  through  you.  Every 
thought  of  my  mind,  every  passion  of  my 
body  shall  be  yours,  and  yours  only.  You 
shall  fill  my  being  so  completely  that  there 
shall  be  no  room  in  it  left  for  evil." 


312  A  Romance  of 

"  My  beloved,"  said  Vernon,  "  you  want  a 
better  guide  than  me." 

"  You  are  quite  good  enough.  You  are  all 
I  should  ever  long  for." 

"  But  suppose  I  died  by  the  way  :  what 
then  ?  What  I  am  anxious  is,  that  you 
should  have  a  securer  helper.  I  hope  I  do 
not  vex  you  ;  but  let  me  talk  on  a  little. 
What  I  want  to  be  assured  of  is  that,  sup- 
posing I  were  to  be  taken  from  you — suppose 
I  were  to  die,  for  instance — you  would  still 
have  the  same  incentive  to  be  true  to  your 
highest  nature." 

"  If  you  were  to  die,"  she  said,  "I  think  I 
should.  I  should  wish  to  follow  where  you 
had  gone  before." 

"  Well,  put  death  out  of  the  question. 
Suppose,  simply,  that  somehow  I  did  not 
care  for  you  ?  " 

"In  that  case  I  don't  know  what  would 
happen.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Cannot  you  be 
content  to  let  things  be  as  they  are  ?  I  love 
you  and  you  help  me  to  love  goodness  ;  but 
without  your  help  I  don't  know  that  I  could 
be  sure  of  myself.  Why  should  I  pretend 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  313 

what  is  not  true  ?  My  memory  is  still  full  of 
the  past  ;  no  magic  can  alter  that ;  and  if 
you  went  from  me,  and  made  a  vacuum  in 
my  present,  the  past  would  probably  rush  in 
and  fill  it  up." 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Vernon,  with  a  sud- 
den coldness  in  his  voice.  '-Let  us  suppose 
I  am  very  fond  of  the  smell  of  eau-de-cologne. 
Do  you  think  that  if  I  had  none  left  in  my 
bottle,  I  should  dip  my  pocket-handkerchief 
in  the  next  drain  as  a  substitute  ?" 

"  I  think  you  would  be  very  silly  if  you 
did,"  she  said,  her  voice  growing  cold  also. 

"  Then  would  you  not  be  equally  or  even 
more  silly,  if  on  losing  a  comrade  in  the 
search  for  the  thing  you  loved,  you  were  to 
try  to  console  yourself  by  seeking  the  thing 
you  hated  ? " 

"  Only  the  worst  of  it  is,  you  see,':  she 
said  with  a  slight  laugh,  "  that  the  things  that 
would  console  me  are  not  things  I  hate.  If 
it  were  so  I  should  not  be  what  I  am.  When 
drunkards  have  not  got  wine,  they  will  drink 
stuff  out  of  the  next  spirit-lamp." 

"  Cynthia,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  intensity 


314  A  Romance  of 

that  was  half  anger,  half  earnestness,  "  I  will 
not  have  you  speak  like  this,  you  do  not 
mean  it,  and  I  cannot  endure  to  hear  you." 
Then  his  voice  softened.  "  What  is  it — tell 
me — what  makes  you  so  distrust  yourself  ? 
Forgive  me  if  I  just  now  spoke  a  little 
roughly.  It  all  comes  from  my  intense  care 
for  you.  My  Cynthia,  let  me  take  your  bur- 
den, if  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  trust  me. 
Sure  it  is  not  that  -  — ."  Here  he  hesitated 
and  looked  in  her  eyes  pleadingly.  "It  is 
not — is  it — that  you  love  that  other  man 
still?" 

She  flushed  scarlet,  and  she  turned  her 
face  away  from  him.  "  Me,"  she  said,  "good 
God,  no  ! " 

"  What,  then  is  it  ?  You  are  a  complete 
mystery  to  me.  If  only  I  knew  the  truth,  I 
could  be  of  so  much  more  help  to  you." 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  she  said.  "  Why  harp  on 
upon  this  one  subject  ?  Is  there  any  use  in 
trying  to  stir  up  all  the  dregs  of  my  nature  ? 
In  all  conscience  I  have  told  you  enough 
already.  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
smile  of  expiring  tenderness,  "  you  must  be, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  315 

I  think,  a  very  innocent-minded  person,  or 
you  would  have  understood  it  pretty  well  by 
this  time." 

"Is  that  so  ?  And  have  you  nothing  more 
to  tell  me?" 

She  bit  her  lip,  and  said  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Nothing." 

Vernon  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked 
away  for  a  space  or  two ;  then  he  came  slowly 
back  again,  and  stood  confronting  her.  She 
did  not  look  on,  or  seem  to  notice  him,  but 
she  began  to  trifle  with  a  bunch  of  charms 
upon  her  watch-chain.  When  Vernon  spoke 
he  did  so  very  quietly — with  a  quiet,  indeed, 
that  was  not  unlike  apathy. 

"  Then  in  that  case,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose 
I  have  done  all  I  can  do.  I  am  sorry  for  it, 
for  at  first  I  was  more  hopeful.  I  thought  at 
first  I  might  have  come  to  really  know  you ; 
but  it  seems  I  have  overrated  one  of  two 
things — either  my  own  power  of  understand- 
ing yours,  or  your  wish  to  be  understood.  Still 
even  thus,  I  have  one  thing  left  to  ask  you. 
Give  me  credit  for  at  least  good  intentions  ; 
and  believe  that  I  have  never  wished  to  vex 


316  A  Romance  of 

or  pain  you  needlessly.  I  have  never  asked 
you  a  question  out  of  any  idle  curiosity,  nor 
do  I  wish  to  do  so  now ;  and  now  that  I  have 
come  to  a  part  of  your  character  to  which  you 
can  give  me  no  clue,  there  is  nothing  left  for 
me  but  to  cease  troubling  you  to  no  pur- 
pose." 

There  occurred  at  this  moment  an  unfore- 
seen interruption.  A  servant  made  his  ap- 
pearance through  the  aid  of  the  little  tunnel, 
and  announced  to  Miss  Walters  that  Colonel 
Stapleton  was  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Tell  him,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  coming 
up  immediately.  I  will  be  with  him  in  a  few 
minutes." 

She  waited  till  the  man  was  out  of  sight, 
and  then  she  rose  to  go.  "  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  coldly,  as  she  swept 
past  him.  "  I  suppose  I  shall  hardly  see  you 
again  to-day — or,  indeed,  for  some  time  to 
come — as  we  may  possibly  go  to-morrow." 

She  was  already  on  the  first  step  that  led 
up  to  the  gardens,  when  he  had  overtaken 
her  and  had  grasped  her  hand.  She  turned 
round  and  faced  him,  with  a  stare  of  cold  in- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  317 

quiry.  "  Cynthia,"  he  said  to  her,  speaking 
between  his  teeth,  "you  shall  not  go  up  and 
see  that  man." 

"And  pray  why  shall  I  not?  Colonel 
Stapleton  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends.  Have 
the  kindness,  Mr.  Vernon,  to  let  my  hand  go." 

"  Cynthia,"  he  said,  still  detaining  her,  "  for 
God's  sake  do  not  be  angry  with  me."  He 
looked  on  her  flower-soft  cheeks  and  longed 
bitterly  that  she  would  again  touch  his  with 
them.  "  I  only  speak  for  your  good  ;  that 
is  the  one,  one  thing  that  I  long  for.  I  can't 
bear  that  your  sacred  lips  should  talk  to  a 
man  like  that,  who  is  everything — who  is 
everything  that  a  man  should  not  be.  His 
friendship  can  do  you  no  good.  It  is  no  real 
friendship,  and  I  hate  to  think  of  your  en- 
during it." 

"  Nonsense !  "  she  said,  indignantly.  "What 
harm  do  you  suppose  this  man  can  do  me  ?  " 
She  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  with  an 
angry  flush — "  You  don't  suppose,"  she  said, 
"  do  you,  that  Colonel  Stapleton  could  be 
the ,  the ." 

"  Good  God,  no  ! "  Vernon  broke  in,  inter- 


318  A  Romance  of 

rupting  her.  "  Little  as  it  seems  I  know  you, 
I  know  you  too  well  for  that." 

She  seemed  hardly  to  hear  his  words,  but 
went  on  with  a  scornful  laugh  :  "If  I  could 
have  got  any  harm  from  his  company,  I 
should  have  got  it,  you  may  be  sure,  long 
ago.  If  my  morals,  that  you  seem  so  anxious 
about,  are  ever  in  danger  again,  it  will  be 
from  some  new  friend,  not  from  any  old  one. 
The  women  that  men  make  love  to  are  those 
they  have  only  just  seen — I  believe  you,  Mr. 
Vernon,  can  bear  v/itness  in  that — not  those 
they  have  been  familiar  with  for  seventeen 
years." 

"  You  mistake  me,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not 
jealous  of  Colonel  Stapleton  in  the  common 
sense  of  the  word  ;  but  am  only  jealous  of 
you  in  the  way  that  God  might  be.  I  love 
you  so  well  that  I  am  jealous  of  the  very 
tone  of  your  mind  ;  and  is  there  one  thought 
that  you  really  wish  to  cherish  in  which  this 
man  could  sympathize,  or  which  you  could  so 
much  as  utter  to  him  ?  " 

Words  could  not  have  been  spoken  with 
more  piteous  earnestness ;  but  she  showed  no 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  319 

sign    of     relenting.       Rather,    the   more    he 
pleaded,  the  more  did  she  seem  to  harden. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  in  the 
same  unrelenting  tone,  "  if  one  is  to  cut  off 
all  one's  acquaintance  who  do  not  come  up 
to  such  a  lofty  standard  as  yours,  she  would 
be  obliged  to  go  into  a  convent.  I  have  far 
too  much  need  of  indulgence  myself  not  to 
extend  some  to  others  ;  and  I  believe  that 
your  young  lady  friends  are  not  above  sus- 
picion. Including  myself,  I  have  seen  you 
amusing  yourself  with  three  of  them,  and  I 
can't  say  of  these  any  one  has  been  a  model 
of  virtue.  Come,"  she  went  on  abruptly,  "do 
you  not  see  I  am  waiting  ?  I  cannot  wrench 
my  hand  from  you,  if  you  still  persist  in  hold- 
ing me  ;  but  I  believe  I  am  speaking  to  a 
gentleman,  and  once  more  I  must  ask  you  to 
let  me  go." 

Vernon  released  her  without  a  word. 
"  Good  morning,"  she  said  with  perfect  cold- 
ness and  self-possession,  as  she  turned  away 
from  him.  But  he  stood  perfectly  silent,  and 
only  stared  at  her ;  nor  as  she  disappeared 
did  he  make  any  attempt  to  follow  her. 


A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TTERNON  returned  to  his  house  in  a  state 
verging  on  stupor.  He  found  his  late 
breakfast  waiting  for  him,  among  the  dishes 
of  which  was  a  mayonnaise  of  lobster ;  and 
the  very  sight  of  it  turned  him  sick.  But 
though  he  could  eat  nothing,  he  made  up  for 
the  want  by  drinking,  and  he  got  through  the 
better  part  of  a  bottle  of  fine  Chambertin. 
From  drink  he  had  recourse  to  tobacco,  and 
from  his  cigarettes  he  again  went  back  to  his 
Burgundy.  He  had  not  the  least  wish  to 
drown  thought  in  intoxication.  All  he 
wanted  was  somehow  or  other  to  sustain  him- 
self. He  was  battered,  bruised,  and  crushed. 
He  had  not  known  a  shock  of  this  kind  before, 
and  he  staggered  under  it  in  lost  bewilder- 
ment. He  ached  through  and  through  with 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  321 

a  forlorn  sense  of  desolation  ;  and  he  some- 
times muttered  to  himself  in  the  words  of 

Lear : 

" '  Down  thou  climbing  sorrow, 
Hy&tertca  passto,  down  ! ' ' 

The  wine  by  and  by  began  to  have  some 
effect  upon  him ;  he  went  out  of  doors,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  rid  of  this  ;  and  he  turned 
with  unsteady  steps  toward  the  hotel  gar- 
dens. He  wandered  about  there  for  he  knew 
not  how  long,  abjectly,  like  a  wounded  ani- 
mal, or  perhaps  like  a  scapegoat,  and  bearing 
a  kindred  burden.  At  last,  however,  his 
wretchedness  took  the  shape  of  resolution, 
and  returning  in-doors,  he  wrote  the  follow- 
ing note  to  Miss  Walters  : — 

"  Cynthia,  I  must  see  you.  If  you  are  really  resolved 
that  we  are  to  part  forever,  you  shall  at  least  not  part 
from  me  as  you  did  this  morning.  Something  more  I 
must  say  to  you,  and  say  it  before  the  day  is  over.  Do 
not  refuse  to  hear  me.  I  beseech  you  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity. You  have  never  been  out  of  my  thoughts  since 
that  moment  when  you  turned  away  from  me.  Your  last 
words  have  been  bruising  me,  they  have  been  weighing 
me  down  ever  since.  I  could  have  borne  it  better  that 
21 


322  A  Romance  of 

you  should  have  beaten  me  with  a  horsewhip,  than  that 
you  should  have  spoken  as  you  did  then.  I  would  almost 
think  that  till  to-day  I  had  never  known  sorrow.  It  is 
not  for  myself  I  am  sorry  ;  it  is  for  you,  for  you  only. 
If  you  are  tired  of  me,  send  me  away ;  but  oh,  do  not 
send  your  own  soul  away  from  your  own  self.  It  seems 
to  me  now  that  I  have  no  feeling  left  but  one,  and  that 
one  has  swallowed  all  the  others.  It  is  an  intense  desire 
that  you  may  become  true  to  yourself.  As  for  me,  think 
what  you  will  of  me.  I  am  asking  you  for  nothing  on 
my  own  account.  And  yet  I  am  wrong ;  I  am  asking 
for  one  thing.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  ;  if  I  have  done 
anything  to  pain  you  forgive  me,  and  see  me,  if  for  only 
one  half  hour,  and  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say  to  you. 
Come  to  me  to-night  in  the  garden.  Be  at  the  seat  we 
know  of — will  you  ?  Write  me  one  line  to  say  yes  or 
no.  I  shall  have  no  peace  till  I  get  your  answer." 

The  servant  who  took  the  letter  brought 
back  to  Vernon  word  that  an  answer  would 
be  sent  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or  two.  At 
last  it  came.  It  was  only  a  pencil  scrawl. 
"Why,"  it  ran,  "should  I  be  angry  with  you? 
Yes,  come  if  you  like.  I  will  be  there  at  ten 
this  evening." 

The  tone  of  this  did  not  altogether  reas- 
sure him,  and  when  he  reached  the  rendez- 
vous, his  heart  was  still  aching.  She  was  not 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  323 

yet  there,  and  his  spirits  sank  still  lower.  As 
he  waited  the  moments  seemed  like  hours  to 
him,  and  a  clear  presentiment  shaped  itself 
that  she  would  never  come  at  all.  The  night 
was  soft  and  lovely,  the  fountains  splashed 
and  glimmered,  all  nature  was  full  of  the 
same  luxurious  languor  that  had  so  well  ac- 
corded with  the  earlier  stages  of  his  passion. 
But  now  all  was  changed.  His  passion  had 
passed  from  romance  into  hard  reality. 
There  was  nothing  now  in  it  akin  to  the 
scent  of  flowers,  or  the  splash  of  fountains, 
or  the  glimmer  of  moon-lit  seas  ;  and  the 
human  anxieties  that  could  be  affected  by 
things  like  these  now  seemed  to  him  but  silly 
toys  and  child's  play.  He  waited  in  weary 
impatience  for  he  knew  not  how  long,  and 
still  she  did  not  come.  At  length  through 
the  quiet  he  heard  a  faint  far  sound.  It 
ceased  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  again  he 
heard  it.  It  was  now  sharper  and  more  clear, 
and  he  recognized  it  as  the  sound  of  carriage 
wheels.  Presently  a  gleam  of  white  was  visi- 
ble, slowly  gliding  among  the  orange  trees ; 
and  in  another  moment  Miss  Walters  was  be- 


324  A  Romance  of 

fore  him — softly  perfumed — daintily  dressed 
as  ever. 

"  I  thought,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  you  were 
never  coming  !  I  thought  you  were  drifting 
altogether  away  from  me  !  " 

"  I  couldn't  come  sooner,"  she  said,  softly 
and  calmly.  "  Forgive  me  for  having  kept 
you  waiting." 

Her  tone  and  her  expression  were  both 
ambiguous,  as  though  two  minds  were  being 
balanced  in  her,  the  one  against  the  other. 

"  Has  he,  then,  only  just  left  you  ?"  asked 
Vernon,  coldly. 

"  If  by  Ae,"  she  said,  "  you  mean  Colonel 
Stapleton,  he  has  only  just  left  us.  I  was 
obliged  to  wait  till  he  was  gone.  I  could 
hardly,  you  see,  ask  a  guest  to  excuse  me.  on 
the  ground  of  having  an  assignation  in  the 
garden." 

"  I  am  not  vexed  with  you,"  said  Vernon, 
"  for  having  kept  me  waiting.  I  am  only 
gratified  to  you  for  Jiaving  come  at  all.  Sit 
down  by  me,  Cynthia,  for  a  little,  and  let  me 
talk  to  you." 

She  folded  her  hands  before  her,  and  fixed 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  325 

her  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  I  am  listening," 
she  said.  "  Please  begin,  will  you  ?  " 

Vernon,  however,  was  for  a  while  silent. 
He  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  in  finding 
either  his  words  or  voice.  At  last,  however, 
he  began,  speaking  very  low  and  slowly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  why  I  have 
begged  you  to  meet  me  here  ?  I  have  had 
one  reason,  and  one  only.  It  is  because  I 
see  into  your  character — see  down  into  the 
inmost  depths  of  it,  and  because  I  see  how 
noble,  and  pure,  and  beautiful  it  really  is. 
My  Cynthia,  you  are  akin  to  all  that  is  best 
and  holiest ;  and  oh,  if  my  death  could  help 
you,  I  would  very  gladly  die  for  you.  Till 
this  morning  I  thought  you  were  safe,  and 
that  I  had  no  more  cause  for  anxiety.  You 
looked  at  peace,  and  myself,  I  had  seen  you 
praying.  I  watched  your  eyes  in  the  chapel, 
as  they  were  fixed  on  the  altar.  I  listened 
to  your  voice,  as  it  said  to  God's  mother, 
"  Pray  for  me."  My  own  one,  I  had  hoped 
that  all  was  right  with  you.  But  now,  sud- 
denly and  without  warning,  you  tell  me  I  was 
quite  deceived.  You  said  very  little  to-day, 


326  A  Romance  of 

but  the  little  was  like  a  ghastly  flash  of  light- 
ning.  It  revealed  an  unsuspected  cavern  that 
I  have  not  explored — that  I  knew  nothing 
at  all  about.  I  do  not  understand  you  yet. 
Cannot  you  bear  to  trust  me  ?  " 

"  What  more  can  I  tell  you  ?  You  know 
too  much  already." 

"  Too  much  and  yet  too  little."  There  was 
a  long  pause. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  con- 
strained voice,  "  that  I  ever  told  you  any- 
thing. It  was  very  foolish  of  me." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  exclaimed,  "  don't 
say  that  !  Surely  I  have  been  some  help  to 
you,  even  thus  far.  You  are  less  unhappy 
now  than  you  were  when  first  I  knew  you." 

She  gave  a  low  bitter  laugh.  "  Certainly," 
she  said,  "  I  could  not  possibly  be  more  so." 

"You  make  it  very  hard  for  me,"  said 
Vernon,  "  to  say  what  I  wish  to  say  ;  you 
perplex  me  so  that  I  get  almost  bewildered 
as  to  my  own  meaning.  Will  you  bear  with 
me  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  let  me  try  to 
collect  my  thoughts  ?  I  am  so  miserable  that 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  turning  silly."  He  was 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  327 

silent  for  some  time,  leaning  his  forehead 
on  his  hand.  At  last  rousing  himself,  and 
with  a  wretched  look  in  his  eyes,  "  Listen," 
he  said,  "  I  think  I  can  speak  now.  You  told 
me  when  first  we  met  that  you  were  very  un- 
happy, and  what  I  have  been  trying  to  do 
has  been  to  show  you  that  you  were  not  just 
to  yourself.  I  have  been  trying  to  force  you 
to  see  the  good  that  I  see  in  you.  My 
Cynthia,  I  see  it  now,  for  your  soul's  garden 
is  still  white  with  lilies  which,  with  pure 
hands,  you  may  place  upon  God's  altar.  It 
is  this  that  I  have  been  trying  to  show  you. 
And  I  thought  you  had  seen  it,  just  as  one 
sees  a  thing  when  one  wakes  up  from  a  dream, 
and  finds  one  is  not  drowning,  but  is  safe  in 
bed.  I  thought  that  whatever  wrong  you 
may  have  done,  had  become  to  you  '  but  a 
sleep  and  a  forgetting ; '  and  that  you  were 
re-united  to  your  own  taintless  nature.  But 
now  you  tell  me  that  you  are  still  not  sure 
of  yourself,  that  the  very  thing  you  hate  has 
still  some  mysterious  hold  upon  you,  and  that 
it  is  I  only — a  chance  support  like  myself — 
who  keep  you  where  you  are.  If  I  were 


328  A  Romance  of 

taken  from  you,  you  might  again  be  false  to 
your  true  self,  you  say,  and  yet  how  ?  Where 
is  your  danger  ?  All  other  affection,  so  you 
tell  me,  is  dead  in  you." 

"  My  meaning,"  she  said,  looking  straight 
before  her,  "is,  I  think,  simple.  If  a  woman 
has  some  one  to  lean  upon  who  will  fill  her 
life  with  affection,  and  will  not  only  show  her 
what  is  right,  but  will  give  it  a  living  mean- 
ing for  her,  then  she  will  love  the  right  and 
be  true  to  it.  Her  human  love  will  make  all 
other  love  clear  to  her.  But  suppose  she  is 
left  alone — with  no  one  to  guide  her,  or  even 
to  care  whether  she  is  guided  !  But  why 
should  I  talk  ?  You  are  not  a  woman.  You 
can  never  know  what  to  a  woman  affection 
is.  You  talk  of  losing  affection  as  you  might 
talk  of  putting  down  one's  carriage,  or  getting 
rid  of  an  extra  footman  ;  whereas  in  reality 
it  is  like  tearing  out  half  one's  sinews.  No 

,  if   I  were   left  alone,  I  would  certainly 

not  answer  for  myself.  When  a  woman  has 
once  found  pleasure  in  a  way  she  ought  not, 
misery  will  always,  if  it  comes  to  her,  lay  her 
bare  to  temptation.  It  is  not  a  new  affection 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  329 

by  which  such  women  are  tempted.  It  is 
simply  mad  distraction." 

"  But  what  I  can't  endure,"  he  said,  "  is  to 
think  that  what  sullies  you  can  distract  you 
even.  It  wouldn't  distract  you — at  least  not 
in  the  way  you  mean — to  stand  in  the  street 
and  let  a  mob  pelt  and  spit  at  you.  Why 
should  it  distract  you  thus  to  put  a  yet  worse 
insult  upon  you  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  she  said,  "  it  is  an  extremely 
simple  one.  I  know  exactly  the  kind  of  feel- 
ing you  wish  for  me  :  indeed,  no  one  by  na- 
ture could  have  had  it  more  strongly  than  I 
had.  But  you  could  as  easily  give  a  tumbled 
plum  its  bloom  back,  as  give  that  back  to  me. 
One  may  recover  many  things  when  one  has 
lost  them  ;  but  one  will  never  recover  that. 
If  I  live  to  be  old  enough  I  may  perhaps  be 
childish ;  but  I  shall  never  again  be  inno- 
cent." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  began  pacing 
slowly  up  and  down  before  her.  His  abstrac- 
tion and  prolonged  silence  seemed  to  chill 
and  harden  her. 

"Well  she  said,  "and  do  you  understand 


33O  A  Romance  of 

me  now?  It  was  better  to  be  honest  with 
you,  even  if  I  have  made  you  think  me  too 
depraved  to  be  spoken  to.  I  at  least  love 
truth,  if  I  have  no  other  virtue  ;  and  I  would 
far  sooner  that  you  did  not  care  for  me  at 
all  than  that  you  cared  for  me  under  false 
pretenses." 

"You  are  not  depraved,"  said  Vernon, 
"  and  I  do  not  think  you  are." 

"  It  is  foolish  of  you,"  she  said,  "  to  eat 
your  own  words  in  that  way ;  nor  is  it  the 
least  comfort  to  me  to  hear  you  do  it.  If  I 
were  not  a  lady,  I  could  describe  my  own 
character  far  better  and  more  tersely  than 
you  have  done,  only,  unfortunately,  the  only 
word  I  could  use  is  not  generally  found  in  a 
well-bred  lady's  vocabulary." 

"  Vernon  sat  down  by  her  and  was  about 
to  begin  speaking ;  but  she  did  not  give  him 
time. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  am  I  looking  well  to- 
night ?  Why  don't  you  kiss  me,  and  tell  me 
how  soft  and  pretty  I  am?  Isn't  that  what 
you  say  generally  when  you  talk  to  girls  like 
me  ?  By  the  way,  I  have  found  a  word  that 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  331 

will  at  least  describe  what  I  might  have 
been,  had  circumstances  only  favored  me — 
an  hetaira.  If  I  had  lived  at  Athens,  I 
should  have  performed  that  part  capitally.  I 
was  made  for  a  life  of  pleasure,  I  think,  if 

,  if  -  — ."  She  stopped  abruptly  for  a 

moment,  and  then  broke  out  once  more — "  If 
only  there  were  not  something  in  me  that 
had  made  all  my  pleasure  a  hell." 

Vernon  had  been  listening  to  her  hitherto 
aghast,  silent,  and  motionless,  but  he  caught 
at  this  last  sentence,  and  eagerly  bent  for- 
ward to  her. 

"  My  Cynthia,"  he  said,  "my  poor  unhappy 

loved  one,  do  you  think  people  really  bad  are 

unhappy  in  the  way  that  you  are  ?    I  am  torn 

as  I  think  of  you  by  two  conflicting  impulses 

—to  worship,  and  to  pity  you." 

The  word  pity  stung  her.  "  Thank  you," 
she  said,  "but  I  have  no  wish  to  be  pitied. 
I  am  as  much  too  proud  for  your  pity  as  I 
am  too  depraved  for  your  worship." 

Her  voice  as  she  said  this  had  an  icy 
coldness ;  but  just  at  the  last  word  or  two  it 
trembled  ever  so  little,  and  in  another  mo- 


332  A  Romance  of 

ment  her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands,  and 
she  was  sobbing  violently. 

"  Oh,  can't  I  do  anything  to  stop  this  ? " 
she  gasped.  "If  I  can't  I  shall  die.  I  have 
been  often  told  so  by  the  doctors.  My  heart 
is  all  wrong,  and  I  might  die  at  any  moment. 
And  yet  why  should  I  not  ?  It  would  be  the 
best  thing  for  me.  Then  at  last — then  at  last 
I  might  be  at  rest." 

Vernon  took  her  hand,  but  it  was  cold  and 
limp,  and  wet  with  tears  that  had  fallen  upon 
it.  He  spoke  to  her  with  the  most  tender 
kindness,  and  said  all  he  could  to  comfort 
her. 

"  Oh,  why,"  she  said,  "  are  you  so  hard 
upon  me  ?  Why  do  you  send  me  away  from 
you  when  I  tell  you  I  am  only  good  for  your 
sake  ?  Oh,  you  have  been  cruel — you  have 
been  cruel  to  me !  If  you  only  knew,  when 
a  person  is  in  my  condition,  how  easy  it  is  to 
wound  them — how  the  least  hard  word  can  be 
like  a  dagger  to  them  ! " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Vernon,  "  I  did  not  mean 
to  be  hard  on  you.  If  I  had  hurt  you  by 
the  way  I  have  spoken,  I'm  sure  I  may  say, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  333 

like  the  schoolmaster  when  he  whips  the  boy, 
'It  hurts  me  most.'" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  might  say  that  just 
like  the  schoolmaster,  for  it  would  not  be 
true,"  and  she  looked  up  at  him  timidly,  with 
a  little  faint  smile  of  humor.  This  to  him 
was  like  a  gleam  of  returning  sunshine ;  and 
now  her  voice  softened,  and  she  began  to 
speak  pleadingly.  "  Why,"  she  went  on,  "if 
you  really  wish  me  to  be  good,  won't  you  let 
me  begin  with  thinking  that  you  are  pleased 
with  my  goodness?  Let  me  do  that  first; 
and  I  will  learn  afterward  to  love  goodness 
for  its  own  sake." 

"  Yes — and  for  your  own  sake  also;  for  the 
sake  of  your  own  self-reverence.  I  wish  you 
to  shun  and  to  flinch  from  evil  as  you  would 
from  a  wound,  or  from  hot  iron.  And  surely 
you  do  now,  if  you  only  knew  yourself. 
Surely  you  wrong  yourself  by  your  own 
fears,  don't  you  ?  Tell  me,  my  Cynthia,  my 
love  with  the  saint's  eyes,  is  what  I  say  not 
true?" 

She  had  ceased  sobbing  now,  but  her  eyes 
were  still  damp  with  tears.  As  he  said 


334  -A  Romance  of 

she  suddenly  collected  herself,  and,  with  a 
forced  firmness  in  her  voice,  said,  after  a 
pause,  "  No,  it  is  not  true." 

"  Cynthia ! " 

"  Don't  speak  in  that  tone — please  don't. 
If  you  don't  wish  to  kill  me,  please  be  kind 
and  patient  with  me.  Oh,  God,  how  my 
heart  is  beating  !  Will  you  listen  ? "  she  went 
on,  gasping.  "  I  have  several  things  to  tell 
you  which,  perhaps,  will  make  you  think  a 
little  more  kindly  about  me.  Ever  since  I 
knew  you — since  that  night  when  we  drove 
home  together,  and  you  spoke  to  me  about 
your  having  wandered  from  your  true  self— 
ever  since  then  I  have  been  struggling,  bat- 
tling with  my  evil.  Then  afterward,  when 
some  impulse  moved  me  to  confess  to  you,  I 
have  tried  yet  more  earnestly ;  and  I  have 
had  temptations  fawning  upon  me  which  you 
little  knew  about — yes,  during  the  last  fort- 
night, since  we  have  been  at  the  Cap  de  Juan." 

"  Temptations  !  "  echoed  Vernon. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can't  tell  you  what 
or  whence.  I  can  only  say  they  were  from 
some  one  that  you  never  saw  or  heard  about 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  335 

And  oh,  how  I  prayed,  and  prayed,  and 
prayed,  and  received  no  answer.  You  little 
thought  what  a  poor  creature  there  was  with- 
in a  few  hundred  yards  of  you.  Well !  what 
do  you  think  has  helped  me  ?  My  only  hope 
and  help  has  Ipeen  the  thought  of  you.  Ro- 
man Catholics  pray  to  dead  saints.  Why 
should  I  not  get  help  of  the  same  sort  from 
a  living  friend  ?  " 

"You  shall,"  exclaimed  Vernon ;  "all  help 
that  is  mine  to  give  you.  But  there  is  one 
thing  that  I  must  once  more  beg  of  you. 
Don't  go  on  yielding,  either  in  word  or 
thought,  to  these  extravagant  self-accusations. 
Let  me  only  whisper  to  you,  Go,  sin  no 
more,  and,  if  I  may  venture  to  use  the 
words,  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee." 

She  looked  at  the  face  wistfully.  "  What 
I  say  of  myself  is  not  at  all  extravagant.  I 
know  you  think  so  ;  and  each  time  I  see  you 
do  I  feel  that  I  am  still  deceiving  you.  You 
think,  I  believe,  that  there  is  some  pretty 
story  connected  with  me.  You  think  no 
doubt  that  I  am  some  sort  of  Juliet :  not,  I 
am  sure,  that  poor  Juliet  had  much  to  tax 


336  A  Romance  of 

herself  with.  But  I  must  shelter  that  bubble 
if  I  can.  And  yet  how  can  I  ?  How  can  I 
begin  ?  Oh,  me  !  the  wretchedness  and  the 
shame  of  it  all ! " 

"  My  darling,"  said  Vernon,  "  if  to  tell  me 
is  any  relief,  tell  me.  But  if  not,  let  things 
rest  as  they  are.  I  can  trust  you  without 
forcing  your  confidence." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing,"  she  said.  "  You 
trust  me  too  much.  It  will  relieve  me  to  tell 
the  entire  truth  to  you — that  is,  if  I  can  only 
manage  it.  And  don't  be  afraid  I  shall  break 
down  over  it,  and  make  a  scene  again.  I  am 
quite  myself  now,  and  my  heart  has  done 
throbbing.  Would  you  mind  walking  a  little 
with  me  ?  I  think  I  could  talk  better  then." 

Her  manner  was  perfectly  calm  now,  yet 
without  hardness.  They  rose  at  her  last  re- 
quest, and  walked  along  the  path  together. 
Vernon  offered  his  arm  to  her,  but  she  gently 
refused  to  take  it.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  not  now 
if  you  please.  I  mean  you  first  to  know 
better  who  it  is  you  are  talking  to.  Well- 
to  begin  with,  you  know  this  much  already, 
that  I  am  only  received  in  society  because 


The  Nineteenth    Century.  337 

the  world  knows  nothing  about  me.  I  am 
there  upon  false  pretenses.  That  is  hardly  a 
pleasant  sense  to  have  always  with  one. 
However,  we  will  let  that  pass.  I  have  two 
things  beside  that  to  tell  you — one  is  how  I 
have  treated  a  certain  man,  the  other  how  a 
certain  man  has  treated  me.  I  can  tell  the 
first  story  easier,  and  I  will  begin  with  that. 
Rather  more  than  a  year  ago  I  made  a  re- 
treat with  a  friend  of  mine — it  is  the  very 
Mrs.  Crane  we  are  going  to  visit  at  San 
Remo — a  quaint  little  watering-place  between 
Genoa  and  Spezzia.  For  me  it  was  really  a 
retreat — a  retreat  in  the  religious  sense.  I 
was  very  unhappy  about  myself,  and  I  had 
been  trying  to  take  up  with  religion.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  that  I  very  nearly  became  a  Cath- 
olic ?  Well — Mrs.  Crane  then  made  friends 
with  a  man,  who,  having  nothing  better  to 
do,  fell  deeply  in  love  with  me.  Love  is 
hardly  the  word  for  it.  He  simply  worship- 
ped me.  He  thought  me  a  saint.  He  told 
me  that  I  had  saved  him  from  all  kinds  of 
evil  courses." 

"  Did  you  care  for  him?"  said  Vernon. 
22 


338  A  Romance  of 

"Yes,  I  liked  him.  I  had  an  intense  re- 
spect for  him.  I  was  trying  to  be  good  my- 
self, and  I  respected  all  goodness  then.  But 
I  did  not  behave  well.  I  encouraged  him. 
I  made  him  think  I  cared  more  than  I  really 
did  for  him,  and  at  last  he  asked  me  if  I 
would  marry  him.  I  had  dreaded  for  a  day 
or  two  before  that  this  might  be  coming.  I 
told  him  no.  I  had  really  not  the  least  love 
for  him,  and  yet  it  was  difficult  to  give  him 
too  hard  a  denial.  I  suppose  I  had  become 
so  demoralized  that  I  couldn't  bear  losing  an 
admirer.  Well,  in  course  of  time  he  had  to 
return  to  England,  and  I  managed  to  put 
him  off  with  some  indefinite  hope,  which  I 
believe  he  still  indulges  in  and  regards  as 
his  most  sacred  treasure.  If  ever  a  woman 
played  with  a  human  soul,  I  have  played  with 
his." 

She  paused.  "  You  have  shown  me,"  said 
Vernon,  "  how  right  I  was  in  what  I  have 
said  to  you.  You  look  on  your  own  mis- 
deeds in  far  too  gloomy  a  way.  God  knows 
that  we  should  be  all  of  us  more  careful  than 
we  are  in  matters  such  as  these.  But  there 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  339 

are  many  good  women  who  might  make  much 
worse  confessions." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  must  re- 
member when  I  knew  this  man  I  fancied  my- 
self to  be  going  through  the  most  solemn 
religious  experiences  ;  and  yet  even  then  my 
wicked  vanity  was  misleading  me.  However, 
it  is  not  for  its  own  sake  that  I  tell  you  this 
incident.  It  is  for  an  accidental  reason,  and 
one  that  is  personal  to  yourself." 

"To  me!" 

"You,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "to  you.  But 
we  won't  stop  to  talk  about  that  now.  I 
must  get  through  the  task  I  have  set  myself, 
and  the  worst  is  not  over  yet."  Here  her 
voice  failed  her.  She  caught  hold  of  Ver- 
non's  arm,  and  gulped  down  a  spasmodic 
sob. 

"Don't  go  on,"  said  Vernon,  "if  it  gives 
pain  to  you." 

"  I  must,"  she  said.  "  I  will  be  brave  and 
get  it  over.  Only  two  months  after  the  man 
had  left  me,  I  was  staying  at  Nice,  with  some 
rather  fast  friends  I  had.  One  reason  why  I 
hate  Monte  Carlo  so  is  because ."  Once 


340  A  Romance  of 

more  she  stopped.  Then  tightening  her  hold 
on  his  arm,  so  as  almost  to  give  him  pain, 
she  put  her  lips  to  his  ear,  and  spoke  in  a 
quick  whisper.  "  I  used  often  to  go  over 
there  with  a  very  bad  person — a  man.  I  used 
to  gamble  there — anything  to  drown  thought. 
He  used  to  bank  with  me,  and  I  won  a  lot  of 
money.  I  couldn't  touch  it — not  a  penny  of 
it.  I  gave  it  all  away  to  charities.  Do  you 
understand  what  I  have  just  said  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Vernon,  sadly.  "  My  poor, 
poor  Cynthia  ! "  Presently  he  added,  "  I  must 
beg  your  pardon  for  one  thought,  which  did 
cross  my  mind  this  morning.  I  mean  about 
Colonel  Stapleton ;  for  I  know,  from  what  he 
has  told  me,  that  at  that  time  he  was  away  in 
Palestine." 

"  He  was,"  she  said.  "  I  had  not  seen  him 
till  the  other  day  for  a  long  time." 

"Well  ,"  said  Vernon,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected her  to  continue. 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  all  ?  I  believe  I  don't 
quite  know  what  I'm  saying.  I  wish,  for 
one  reason,  that  you  were  a  worse  person. 
You  would  understand  me  so  much  more 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  341 

easily.  What  I  have  to  tell  you  is . 

God  help  me,  I  am  sorry  I  began  this.  It  is 
nothing  that  can  be  said  exactly  in  so  many 
words.  It's  a  question  rather  of  what  I  am 

than  of  what  I  have  done.  Stay ,"  she 

exclaimed.  "  I  think  I  know  one  way  of 
enlightening  you.  Come  with  me  into  my 
sitting-room.  The  window  is  open.  There 
will  be  nobody  about  by  this  time,  and  I  will 
only  keep  you  a  moment." 

He  followed  her  into  the  house  in  silence, 
She  went  to  a  large  despatch-box  that  stood 
on  one  of  her  tables  by  a  lovely  vase  of  roses, 
and  she  slowly  opened  it. 

"  What  I  am  going  to  show  you,"  she  said, 
"  I  have  myself  only  glanced  at ;  but  the  very 
fact  that  such  a  thing  should  be  sent  me  will 
throw  some  light  for  you  on  the  character  of 
the  sender,  and  the  sort  of  character  which  I 
have  let  him  impute  to  me.  It  comes  from 
the  person  I  told  you  of." 

She  put  into  Vernon's  hands  a  small  oblong 
something,  which  in  the  dim  light  he  did  not 
at  first  see  clearly.  "It  is  locked,"  she  said. 
"  I  believe  there  is  a  key  somewhere," 


34 2  A  Romance  of 

But  she  was  stopped  in  her  search  by  two 
sounds  behind  her.  The  one  was  an  excla- 
mation from  Vernon,  the  other  was  the  fall 
on  the  floor  of  the  object  she  had  just  given 
him.  It  lay  then  at  his  feet.  It  was  the  book 
of  photographs  that  had  been  shown  him  by 
Colonel  Stapleton. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  seconds,  while 
the  two  stood  staring  at  each  other.  At  last 
Vernon  said,  in  a  low  distinct  voice,  "  I  have 
seen  that  book  before.  I  know  too  who  it 
has  come  from." 

Then  his  voice  failed  him.  He  sank  back 
in  his  chair  as  if  dizzy,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  ceiling  in  a  dull,  stony  stare.  As 
for  her,  she  had  sunk  helplessly  to  the  ground, 
pressing  her  face  against  the  low  cushions  of 
a  sofa.  So  far  as  human  life  went,  the  room 
was  a  ghastly  silence.  The  only  sounds  heard 
were  the  tick  of  the  small  carriage-clock  on 
the  chimney-piece,  the  croaking  of  the  frogs 
outside,  and  the  faint  splash  of  the  fountains. 
Silence  seemed  to  both  the  only  thing  possi- 
ble. There  was  nothing  in  either  mind  that 
could  lead  to  a  wish  to  break  it.  Suddenly, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  343 

however,  there  was  the  noise  of  a  door  slam- 
ming. The  effect  was  as  quick  on  Miss  Wal- 
ters as  the  kiss  on  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
"Quick,"  she  said  to  Vernon.  "  It  is  Braham 
coming — our  butler."  I  know  his  footstep. 
Get  into  the  garden  till  he's  gone  ;  but  don't 
go  away,  unless  you  mean  quite  to  leave  me." 

Vernon  went  as  he  was  bidden.  He  could 
hear  Miss  Walters'  voice  as  she  was  talking 
to  the  servant.  He  heard  a  door  closing,  and 
then  she  reappeared  at  the  window. 

"  I  am  coming  out,"  she  said.  "  Don't  let 
us  go  back  into  the  room  again."  She  spoke 
very  solemnly,  and  there  was  a  strange  calm 
in  her  face.  "  I  shall  not  keep  you  long,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  come  to  say  good-by  to  you." 

Vernon  answered  nothing,  he  only  stood 
and  looked  at  her.  "  Am  I  not  fit,"  she  said 
at  last,  "  to  have  even  a  good-by  said  to  me?" 

Again  he  gave  no  answer,  so  far  as  words 
went,  but  he  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and 
softly  folded  her  in  his  arms.  Her  face  as 
she  looked  at  him  was  full  of  astonished 
gratitude,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  a  smile 
on  it ;  it  seemed  even  more  sad  than  before. 


344 

"Oh,"  she  murmured  presently,  "you  are 
very,  very  kind  to  me.  You  are  being  kind, 
as  it  were,  to  a  person  upon  her  death-bed  ; 
for  of  course  now  it  is  all — all  over  between 
us." 

"  All  over  !  "  he  echoed. 

"You  can  never,"  she  said,  "be  my  friend 
now  you  know  me,  especially  now  you  have 
found  out  how  I  have  been  lying  to  you. 
But  oh  the  shame  of  it  all !  I  was  always 
so  afraid  you  might  guess  it;  and  I  couldn't 
bear  to  think  you  should  know  who  the  per- 
son was." 

He  took  her  hand  and  placed  her  arm 
in  his,  and  they  moved  away  toward  the 
shadow  of  some  orange-trees.  She  was 
quite  passive — she  went  exactly  as  he  guided 
her ;  but  she  seemed  reassured  a  little  by  all 
his  tender  treatment.  Presently  she  began 
again,  and  her  voice  sounded  like  a  child's. 

"I  was  so  young,"  she  said,  "when  he 
made  me  bad  first ;  and  at  one  time,  long, 
long  ago,  he  had  been  really  good  and  nice 
to  me.  I  don't  know  when  he  became  dif- 
ferent. I  suppose  when  I  got  prettier.  I 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  345 

had  hardly  left  the  school-room,  I  remember, 
when  he  began  to  lend  me  horrid  French 
novels.  I  didn't  understand  them  ;  that  was 
one  thing ;  at  least  not  till  a  long  time  after- 
ward. I  have  had" — and  she  gave  a  little 
nervous  laugh — "  I  have  had,  you  see,  to  live 
up  to  my  education." 

At  last  Vernon  spoke.  "  By  and  by,"  he 
said,  "when  I  have  gone  away  from  you,  I 
shall  pray  Almighty  God  to  damn  that  man's 
soul  forever." 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  she  said.  "It  was  my  fault 
as  well  as  his.  I  knew  what  was  right  then 
as  well  as  I  do  now.  But  you  see  by  this 
time,  don't  you,  that  I  can  never  again  be 
what  I  once  was  ?  I  know  you  are  horrified 
at  me ;  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Vernon,  slowly  and  with 
effort,  "  that  some  moral  revulsions  are  pride 
in  its  highest  form.  I  might  be  pleased,  per- 
haps, to  think  you  had  never  sinned  ;  but  God 
would  condemn  that  feeling,  and  I  condemn 
it  also.  The  shepherd  loves  the  lost  sheep 
when  he  finds  it,  even  though  it  is  lame  and 
wounded  by  its  wanderings,  and  surely  he 


346  A  Romance  of 

knows  best  what  is  loveable.  You  will  be  a 
far  finer  character  when  you  come  to  your 
soul's  home  again  than  you  would  have  been 
had  you  never  left  it." 

"  When  !  "  she  repeated.  "  Yes,  you  may 
well  say  that ;  but  that  when  is  never.  I  can 
still  see  the  gates  of  that  very  home  you 
speak  of,  but  I  see  them 

"'With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms.' 

There  is  no  way  back  into  Eden." 

"  I  was  foolish,"  said  Vernon,  "  in  the  way 
I  talked  this  morning.  I  don't  ask  you  any 
longer  to  become  an  innocent  girl  again.  I 
ask  you  to  become  a  holy  woman  instead  ; 
that  is  far  better.  Among  the  highest 
saints  in  heaven,  will  be  faces  deepest  scarred 
by  the  battle.  You  are  right,  very  likely,  that 
there  is  no  way  back  into  Eden  ;  but — I  am 
not  a  great  quoter  of  texts,  yet  I  still  remem- 
ber this  one  :  '  We  all  die  in  Adam,  but  we 
may  all  live  in  Christ.'" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  piercing  eager- 
ness, and  said,  "  Do  you  really  believe  that  ?" 

Vernon  was  embarrassed,  as  he  had  been 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  347 

once  before  already,  by  her  direct  question- 
ing. 

"I  believe  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  you 
will  help  my  unbelief." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  reflecting.  "  Sit 
down,"  she  said,  "on  that  seat  for  a  moment." 

It  was  strange  how,  through  all  her  sor- 
rows, the  feminine  fascination  of  her  com- 
mand still  continued.  Vernon  obeyed  si- 
lently. No  sooner  had  he  done  so,  than 
softly,  like  a  shadow,  she  sank  on  her  knees 
before  him.  "If  you  will  not  mind  hearing 
me,  I  am  going  to  say  a  prayer,"  she  said. 
With  a  movement  of  kindness  that  was  then 
almost  mechanical,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  ;  her  hands  were  folded  before  her 
face.  Vernon  was  glad  that  she  was  not 
watching  him.  He  felt  that  his  thoughts 
were  wandering  far  from  hers,  and  that  his 
face,  rigid  and  melancholy,  would  at  once 
have  betrayed  the  fact.  Presently  a  low 
sound  broke  from  her,  and  he  caught  the  fa- 
miliar accents — as  of  a  little  child's — "  Our 
Father."  He  meanwhile,  in  a  bitter  and 
blank  wonder,  let  his  eyes  stare  about  him, 


348  A  Romance  of 

as   he   thought,    "Does    prayer    mean   any 
thing?" 

That  night  he  slept  a  heavy  dreamless 
sleep.  He  had  not  yet  had  time  to  settle 
either  into  hope  or  misery  ;  and  his  last 
memory  as  he  sank  to  sleep  was  simply  one 
of  Miss  Walters'  parting  words  :  "  Will  you 
see  me  to-morrow  morning  ?  If  we  go  to 
San  Remo  that  day,  it  will  not  be  till  the 
afternoon  at  any  rate." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  349 


CHAPTER  V. 

*T*HEIR  meeting  next  day  began  with  a 
low-toned  quiet  that  came  of  intense 
exhaustion.  The  first  things  said  referred 
to  the  Walters'  movements,  and  Vernon 
learned  that  they  were  actually  going,  in  the 
course  of  the  next  few  hours. 

"For  one  reason,"  she  said,  "I  am  rather 
glad.  There  are  so  many  things  I  can  write 
far  more  clearly  than  I  could  say  them." 

Vernon  meanwhile  had  had  time  to  be 
struck  with  one  thing  ;  and  this  was  a  curious 
change  in  the  style  of  Miss  Walters'  dress. 
In  place  of  her  usual  dainty  toilette,  what 
she  wore  now  might  have  been  almost  called 
dowdy,  but  for  the  unconscious  grace  which 
her  figure  and  bearing  gave  it. 

"  I  never  saw  you,"  he  said,  "in  that  frock 
before." 


350  A  Romance  of 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  Thereby  hangs  a 
tale,"  she  said.  "  I  used  to  wear  this  dress 
when  your  friend  Mr.  Campbell  knew  me." 

"Campbell!"  exclaimed  Vernon.  "Do 
you  mean  Alic  Campbell  ?" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?"  she  said.  "I  meant 
to  have  done  so  ;  but  I  was  so  confused  last 
night." 

"Are  you,  then,  the  person  that  has  changed 
his  whole  life  for  him  ?  *  Good  God  !  why 
but  a  fortnight  back  he  was  here  in  this 
very  place,  and  he  was  telling  me  all  about 
you  ;  only  he  never  said  your  name,  neither 
did  I  mention  yours.  He  was  with  me  only 
a  night,  and  then  went  on  his  way,  little 
dreaming  he  had  been  so  near  you.  Do 
you  know  where  he  was  going  ?  To  a 
friend  of  yours,  that  he  might  hear  news  of 
you." 

Miss  Walters  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 
"What  an  escape!"  she  said.  "I  know  he 
was  coming  abroad  to  hunt  for  me ;  but  I 
got  my  friend,  Mrs.  Crane,  to  contrive  some 
respite  for  me.  He  has  been  at  Sorrento,  I 
know,  with  her,  talking  night  and  day  about 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  351 

me.     Perhaps,  now,  you  wonder  less  why  I 
reproached  myself." 

"He  thinks  you  a  saint,  poor  fellow ;  and 
has  been  trying  all  he  can  to  become  worthy 
of  you." 

"  I  know  he  thinks  me  a  saint,"  said  Miss 
Walters,  "and  that  was  what  I  could  not 
bear.  It  is  more  crushing  to  be  thought 
better  than  it  is  to  be  thought  worse  than 
you  are.  And  I  should  not  be  surprised  at 
Alic  Campbell's  misjudging  me.  He  only 
thought  I  was  what  at  the  time  I  was  really 
trying  to  be.  I  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  very 
simple  person.  Yes — this  is  the  dress  he 
knew  me  in  :  I  think  almost  the  only  dress. 
I  really  did  hate  the  world  just  then  ;  and  I 
tried  in  every  way  to  mortify  my  wicked 
vanity.  I  wore  the  same  dress  this  morning, 
as  a  sign  of  the  same  spirit.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  put  anything  on  that  should  make  my 
wicked  body  seem  beautiful." 

Vernon  answered  her  in  an  oddly  absent 
manner,  "  And  has  the  spirit  of  that  time 
come  back  to  you  ?  " 

"  Do    not    you   know   it  has  ? "   she   said 


352  A  Romance  of 

vehemently ;  "  and  if  you  will  only  help  me  it 
shall  never  leave  me  again.  Oh,  please  be 
kind  to  me,  and  let  me  lean  on  you  for  a  lit- 
tle while  longer,  and  don't  refuse  me  your 
support,  because  I  tell  you  I  can't  do  with- 
out it.  It's  quite  true — I  shall  go  straight 
to  the  dogs  without  you."  But  Vernon  gave 
no  answer  :  he  was  simply  staring  into  va- 
cancy. "  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  half  fright- 
ened. "  Is  anything  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her.  As  he 
did  so  she  seemed  to  divine  his  meaning, 
and  her  lip  quivered  with  a  sort  of  expectant 
terror. 

"  You  told  me,"  he  said,  "  about  your  un- 
happy time  at  Monaco ;  and  at  that  time 
Colonel  Stapleton  was  in  the  Holy  Land." 

He  spoke  very  slowly,  and  her  cheeks 
turned  from  pale  to  scarlet.  With  a  sudden 
effort  she  regained  command  of  herself ;  the 
flush  died  from  her  cheeks,  and  she  said  to 
him  in  a  sad,  clear  voice,  "  Do  you  think  such 
affection  as  Colonel  Stapleton  gives  a  woman 
is  of  a  kind  that  is  likely  to  keep  her  faithful 
during  his  absence  ?  " 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  35 jj 

"  Cynthia,  my  dear  Cynthia,"  cried  a  voice 
in  the  adjoining  drawing-room,  "  Is  that  you  ? 
and  are  you  talking  to  Mr.  Vernon  ?  Ask 
him  to  stay  and  have  breakfast  with  us.  It 
is  ordered  at  twelve  o'clock." 

"  It  is  my  aunt,"  exclaimed  Miss  Walters. 
"  Yes,  Aunt  Louisa,  we  will  be  with  you  in 
another  moment.  Come  " — and  she  turned 
to  Vernon — "  our  conversation  is  over  now  ; 
and  now — at  once — I  can  speak  the  utter, 
utter  truth  to  you.  You  have  got  now  the 
lowest  dregs  of  my  cask." 

"Must  we  go  yet?"  Vernon  whispered. 
*'  Only  one  word  more  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  must  go,  even  if  you 
need  not.  It  is  twelve  already.  Come,  will 
you  have  breakfast  with  us  ?  " 

She  was  about  to  push  the  curtains  aside, 
and  go  into  the  drawing-room,  when  Vernon 
caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  forcibly  drew  her 
near  him.  "  God  bless  you,"  he  murmured. 
"  God  guard  and  save  you  !  "  And  instead 
of  kissing  her  he  made  a  hasty  sign  of  the 
cross  upon  her. 
23 


35 1  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER  VI. 

H^HAT  afternoon,  left  to  his  own  thoughts, 
he  did  what  he  had  not  done  for  a  fort- 
night. He  called  upon  Frederic  Stanley. 
He  found  him  in  his  little  bare  sitting-room, 
apparently  deep  in  thought  at  a  table  strewn 
with  papers  ;  but  Vernon's  entrance  brought 
a  pleasant  smile  to  his  face. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  began  Vernon,  "  since 
last  I  came  to  see  you." 

Stanley  detected  Vernon's  feeling,  and 
adroitly  disclaimed  the  apology.  "  Had  I 
more  room  for  visitors,"  he  said,  "  I  would 
have  asked  you  to  come  before  now.  I  fear 
you  will  think  that  I  affect  to  be  very  inac- 
cessible." 

He  spoke  in" this  way  out  of  a  quick  sense 
of  delicacy.  The  emotion  betrayed  by  Miss 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  355 

Walters,  when  he  dined  at  the  Chateau  St. 
John,  he  had  set  down  to  a  feeling  on  her 
part  for  Vernon,  and  though  this  particular 
conjecture  was  wrong,  it  had  led  him  more  or 
less  to  the  truth.  He  had  gathered  that  be- 
tween the  two  there  had  arisen  some  special 
intimacy,  which  he  hoped  might  result  in 
good  ;  and,  it  was  little  surprise  to  him  that 
he  was  himself  lost  sight  of.  What  did  sur- 
prise him  most,  however,  was  the  dejection  of 
Vernon's  aspect,  which  was  but  ill  concealed 
by  his  constant  efforts  at  talking ;  indeed,  at 
last  he  ceased  to  attempt  concealment. 

"  Stanley,"  he  said,  "  the  last  time  I  was 
here — the  day  I  came  with  Campbell — I 
asked  a  favor  of  you.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  now  repeat  it.  Will  you  come  and 
dine  with  me  this  evening,  and  name  your 
own  hour  ?  I  am  out  of  spirits  for  many  rea- 
sons, and  to  give  me  your  company  would  be 
an  act  of  Christian  charity." 

"  You  look  worn  out,"  said  Stanley.  "  You 
have  had,  I  trust,  nothing  much  to  trouble 
you.  I  shall  certainly  come  to  dinner.  Shall 
we  say  six  thirty  ?  " 


356  A  Romance  of 

The  rest  of  that  afternoon  was  to  Vernon 
a  vigil  of  misery.  The  painful  excitement  of 
the  last  two  days  was  ended,  and  he  now  for 
the  first  time  grew  conscious  of  the  effect 
those  days  had  had  on  him.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  been  bruised  all  over  in  an  accident, 
and  the  bruises  one  by  one  were  becoming 
distinct  tortures.  Every  moment  of  thought 
or  memory  made  him  feel  what  his  condition 
was.  Several  times,  as  he  dwelt  upon  Miss 
Walters,  tears  too  quick  for  repression  filled 
his  eyes  and  fell  from  them.  In  another  mo- 
ment, as  he  still  dwelt  upon  her,  sorrow  gave 
place  to  loathing ;  and  loathing  in  its  turn 
to  intense  attraction.  At  one  time  it  was, 
"Can  I  ever  touch  her  again  ?"  at  another, 
"  Why  did  I  not  make  her  my  mistress  ? " 
And  then  again  sorrow  obtained  the  mastery. 

The  hysterica  passio  had  its  own  way  with 
a  vengeance  ;  tears  blinded  him,  and  he  let 
them  fall  helplessly. 

The  sum  of  his  sorrows,  however,  did  not 
end  here.  He  had  the  thought  of  Campbell 
also  to  prey  upon  him — Campbell,  the  friend 
whom  he  had  supplanted,  or  toward  whom, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  357 

at  least,  he  had  played  a  supplanter's  part. 
But  this  sorrow  was  of  a  somewhat  different 
order.  It  did,  it  is  true,  but  add  to  and  com- 
plicate his  wretchedness ;  but  it  braced,  it 
did  not  unnerve,  him.  It  demanded  his  judg- 
ment even  more  than  it  roused  his  feelings. 
Finally,  there  was  an  image  that  did  both 
equally.  It  was  the  image  of  Colonel  Sta- 
pleton.  When  he  had  run  the  round  of  his 
other  wretched  reflections,  he  found  fierce 
relief  in  his  hatred  of  this  man.  At  first  he 
was  busied  with  various  schemes  for  fighting 
him  ;  but,  considering  the  pretext,  this  did  not 
seem  possible.  He  would  be  blasting  a  rep- 
utation, most  likely,  in  the  very  act  of  aveng- 
ing it.  Nothing  was  left  him,  at  any  rate 
for  the  time  being,  but  to  fan  his  anger  by 
the  most  elaborate  expressions  of  it.  No 
mediaeval  anathemas  could  have  excelled 
Vernon's  broken  mutterings.  "  May  he  die 
slowly,  and  may  the  spirit  of  God  curse  him ! 
May  he  cry  for  eternity  for  a  single  drop  of 
water,  and  may  none  be  given  him.  May 
my  own  death  be  sweetened  by  the  sound 
of  his  shrieks  in  hell."  Such  were  a  few  of 


358  A  Romance  of 

the  ejaculations  in  which  anger  embodied 
itself.  Then  anger  in  its  turn  would  again 
collapse  into  sorrow.  "  My  angel,  my  angel," 
he  would  say,  "  what  has  this  devil  done 
to  you ! "  And  the  procession  of  tortured 
thoughts  would  begin  once  more  where  it 
started  from. 

Such  excitement,  however,  brings  its  own 
relief,  and  by  the  time  Stanley  came  Vernon 
was  wearied  into  a  sort  of  quietude.  But 
though  the  waves  had  ceased  to  lash  them- 
selves, there  was  only  night  over  them,  and 
with  their  spent  force  they  were  still  murmur- 
ing disconsolately.  "  The  meaning  of  life  is 
still  blind  as  ever  to  me,"  was  the  thought 
that  was  now  filling  him.  "  God  will  not  an- 
swer ;  all  the  heavens  are  silent.  In  the  infi- 
nite hush  of  space  is  but  one  solitary  sound— 
the  tides  of  human  history,  as  they  moan  like 
a  homeless  sea."* 

Vernon  did  not  season  his  dinner  with  this 
forlorn  philosophy,  but  its  results  were  visible 
in  his  sad  and  spiritless  conversation,  which 
was  relieved  only  by  an  occasional  show  of 

*  "  The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea." — Tennyson. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  359 

irritation  at  the  mention  of  two  subjects. 
These  were  none  other  than  Campbell  and 
Miss  Walters.  Stanley,  as  was  not  unnatu- 
ral, spoke  often  about  them  both — of  Miss 
Walters  guardedly,  of  Campbell  with  more 
freedom  ;  but  Vernon's  answers  were  so  short 
and  listless,  that  it  was  plain  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  him.  Stanley  could  not 
guess  what,  though  he  tried  many  solutions. 
By  and  by,  however,  he  thought  he  had 
found  a  clue. 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Vernon,  with  a  tone  of 
reviving  interest,  "  what  sort  of  work  it  is  with 
which  you  are  always  occupied  ?  " 

"  I  am  writing  a  small  volume,"  said  Stan- 
ley, "  on  the  teachings  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas. 
I  am  doing  so  at  the  suggestion  of  the  arch- 
bishop, who  wishes  to  issue  a  series  of  prim- 
ers, containing  each  an  account  of  some  great 
Catholic  theologian." 

"  Happy  man  !"  said  Vernon,  "  how  I  envy 
you!" 

"  Do  you  mean  you  envy  me  because  of  the 
kind  of  work  ?  Or  do  you  envy  me  merely 
because  I  have  work  at  all  ?  " 


360  A  Romance  of 

"A  little,"  said  Vernon,  "because  you  have 
work  at  all,  but  chiefly  because  it  is  work  that 
subserves  a  cause  you  worship." 

"  I  know,"  said  Stanley,  "  that  you  do  not 
worship  my  cause  ;  if  you  did  you  would  be- 
long to  it.  But  your  envy  has  a  moral  that 
may  apply  even  to  you." 

Vernon  drank  a  glass  of  wine  and  stared 
blankly  at  Stanley.  "  I  wish  to  goodness," 
he  said,  "  I  could  find  out  how  that  was." 

"  Well,"  said  Stanley,  speaking  now  a  little 
dryly,  "  if  you  will  not  be  offended  with  me,  I 
will  try  to  tell  you.  A  man  of  your  powers, 
and  in  your  position,  may  have  either  the 
fullest  of  lives  or  else  the  emptiest ;  and  if  he 
does  not  achieve  the  first,  he  will  probably 
have  the  second  thrust  upon  him.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  religion,  I  am  speaking  of  com- 
mon happiness." 

"Well,"  said  Vernon,  "go  on.  I  am  lis- 
tening." 

"A  fool,  if  he  be  rich,"  said  Stanley,  "is 
occupied  very  easily.  There  is  no  saying 
what  trifles  may  not  content  him.  But  a 
strong  man's  mind  is  like  a  corrosive  acid. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  361 

It  eats  through  countless  interests  that  suffice 
to  absorb  others.  It  even  takes  the  gilt  off 
vice,  and  it  makes  gambling  vapid.  What  it 
asks  is,  'Give  me  something  to  work  for  that 
I  can  feel  is  worth  the  work.'  Now  for  the 
bulk  of  mankind  there  is  a  ready  answer  to 
this.  They  must  work  to  live,  or  at  least  to 
live  in  comfort ;  and  all  that  they  now  do  is 
to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity.  But  the  rich 
man's  task  is  by  no  means  as  simple  as  this. 
He  has  p.ot  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity,  but 
to  make  a  necessity  of  virtue.  By  an  act  of 
will  and  choice  he  must  take  that  yoke  upon 
him  that  the  larger  number  are  born  with. 
He  must  choose  some  line  of  action ;  he 
must  devote  himself  to  something.  What 
makes  a  man  is  the  sense  that  he  has  com- 
mitted himself." 

"True,"  said  Vernon,  "but  the  struggle 
lies  in  choosing.  In  choosing  a  life's  work 
it  is  just  the  same  as  in  marrying.  Life 
might  be  lived  with  a  hundred  different 
women ;  it  can  with  consistency  be  lived  with 
only  one  ;  and  however  charming  might  be 
the  choice  I  pitched  upon,  her  own  welcome 


362  A  Romance  of 

would  be  drowned  by  the  ninety-and-nine 
farewells.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  choose, 
but  what  is  to  make  one  choose  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  it  is  often  difficult,"  said  Stan- 
ley. "  It  is  one  of  the  rich  man's  trials. 
That  is  the  very  point  I  am  urging.  But 
such  choices,  or  if  you  like  to  put  it  so,  such 
renunciations  are  made  daily.  Every  one 
makes  them  who  meets  with  any  success  in 
life.  The  soldier  does,  the  statesman  does, 
even  the  man  of  fashion  does.  Every  one 
of  these  men,  in  some  sort,  takes  the  veil. 
He  chooses  one  part,  and  he  renounces 
others.  Let  him  once  do  this,  and  his  life 
is  thronged  with  motives.  He  walks  firmly, 
with  firm  ground  under  him.  For  the  first 
time  he  becomes,  properly  speaking,  a  man." 

"  He  may  gain  his  manhood,"  said  Vernon, 
"  but  he  says  good-by  to  his  youth." 

"  Well,"  said  Stanley,  in  a  slight  tone  of 
contempt,  "would  you  keep  youth  beyond 
its  time  ?  Belated  youth  is  sillier  than  second 
childhood.  You  ask  me  what  is  to  drive 
you  to  your  choice  ?  I  should  say  many 
things  might  do  so.  Ambition  might,  or 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  36  \ 

common  sense,  or  a  natural  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  others ;  or,  in  the  point  of  marry- 
ing, natural  affection.  You  see  I  am  putting 
religion,  for  argument's  sake,  quite  out  of 
the  question." 

"  Yes,"  said  Vernon,  "  and,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  that  prevents  you  from  under- 
standing me.  Given  religious  faith,  all  the 
rest  becomes  simple.  Things  worthy  of  your 
self-devotion  at  once  surround  you  on  every 
side,  and  you  welcome — you  do  not  deplore 
your  sacrifices.  Happiness  comes  to  you 
then  by  a  very  different  process — by  super- 
natural sight,  not  by  artificial  blindness." 

"  I  think,"  said  Stanley,  smiling,  "  you  are 
paying  religion  a  somewhat  misplaced  com- 
pliment. It,  no  doubt,  does  bring  us  happi- 
ness, but  it  does  not  bring  it  to  us  ready- 
made  out  of  a  bandbox.  You  don't  have  a 
good  cry  and  then  get  a  sugar-plum.  Indeed, 
too  many  tears,  I  believe,  and  too  many  sen- 
sations of  peace,  are  less  often  signs  of  relig- 
ious depth  than  of  shallowness.  One  of  the 
worst  spiritual  signs  we  can  detect  in  our- 
selves is,  that  we  are  touched  with  the 


364  A  Romance  of 

pathos  of  our  own  condition.  I  remember 
a  young  Catholic  who  once  told  me  of  the 
doubts  he  was  tempted  by,  and  who  had  re- 
solved very  rightly  to  submit  reason  to  faith. 
'  Of  course,'  he  said  at  last,  '  I  can  never 
forget  my  difficulties,  but* — and  the  tears 
filled  his  eyes — '  I  will  wear  them  round  my 
head,  as  an  intellectual  crown  of  thorns.'  I 
advised  him  to  do  so,  but  not  to  talk  about 
it :  'If  you  suffer  patiently  God  will  bless 
you  ;  but  do  not  suffer  before  the  looking- 
glass.'  Religious  life,  Vernon,  you  may  de- 
pend upon  it,  has,  when  it  is  worth  anything, 
a  very  prosaic  side  to  it." 

"  I,"  said  Vernon,  "  connect  religious  life 
with  emotion  less  perhaps  even  than  you  do. 
Faith  would  redeem  me  not  through  he 
heart,  but  through  the  intellect.  To  do  our 
work  in  the  world  we  must  suppose  that  men 
are  loveable  and  worth  working  for ;  but  it 
would  quite  content  me  to  believe  the  fact 
without  feeling  it.  Love  in  this  case  is  like 
gold,  and  belief  is  a  sort  of  paper  currency. 
If  the  bills  of  faith  were  only  endorsed  by 
the  intellect,  I  should  be  quite  content,  and 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  365 

should  be  in  no  hurry  to  cash  them.  The 
only  wages  I  should  ask  for  my  work  would 
be  to  know  that  my  work  was  not  wasted. 
That  knowledge,  my  dear  Stanley,  would 
guide  me  through  the  shadows,  though  I 
have  not  the  least  expectation  that  it  would 
conjure  me  into  the  sunshine." 

"Surely,"  said  Stanley,  "you  don't  want 
faith  to  tell  you  that  you  could  at  least  do 
something  that  would  be  of  some  use  in  the 
world.  There  are  certainly  some  whose  lives 
you  could  make  easier." 

"I  measure,"  said  Vernon,  "my  fellow- 
creatures  by  myself.  If  I  have  no  soul,  they 
have  no  souls  either ;  and  if  I  am  a  fool  to 
be  pleased  by  the  best  of  the  world's  play- 
things, they  are  even  greater  fools  if  they 
are  pleased  by  worse  ones.  If  I  consider 
myself  not  worth  working  for,  how  can  I 
find  satisfaction  in  working  for  inferi®r  du- 
plicates of  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Stanley,  curtly,  "  you  can 
never  know  till  you  have  tried.  But  I  am 
wrong :  you  have  tried.  You  were  very 
kind  to  the  lame  child  here.  You  would  find 


366  A  Romance  of 

it   easier  than  you  think  to  discover  some 
path  of  duty." 

"  Listen,"  said  Vernon,  "  you  speak  of  that 
child.  You  may  say  if  you  like  that  what  I 
did  for  her  was  a  kindness.  Very  well,  then, 
consider  this.  A  certain  old  peasant  woman 
has  an  extremely  dirty  daughter.  This  fact, 
even  were  the  daughter  healthy,  would  hardly 
make  me  radiant.  Why  should  it  do  so— 
because  I  have  made  her  but  half  a  cripple  ? 
The  result  of  my  kindness  at  its  best  is  some- 
thing that  is  less  than  uninteresting." 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  then  ?" 

"  Out  of  good  nature,  I  suppose.  I  have 
plenty,  I  think,  of  that.  My  dear  Stanley, 
we  are  talking  openly,  so  perhaps  I  may  say 
to  you  what  I  should  say  to  no  one  else.  I 
have  tried  philanthropy  on  a  more  extended 
scale.  I  happen  to  have  about  nine  thousand 
a  year.  Of  this  I  give  a  good  two-thirds  to 
entirely  unselfish  purposes — I  do  so  at  this 
moment.  But  I  get  no  pleasure  from  this ; 
or  if  at  times  I  do,  my  reason  very  soon 
steps  in  and  destroys  it.  It  acts,  as  you 
said  most  justly,  like  a  corrosive  acid  upon  it. 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  367 

But  you  were  only  thinking  of  frivolous  pleas- 
ures. I  assure  you  I  find  them  all  equally 
destructive." 

Stanley  looked  at  Vernon  in  perplexed 
surprise;  and  then,  with  a  faint  smile,  "You're 
a  curious  man,"  he  said. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Vernon.  "  I  am  not  at 
all  curious.  I  only  have  a  habit  of  applying 
logic  to  everything." 

"Yes,"  said  Stanley,  "and  natural  love  to 
nothing." 

"  I  could  love  well  enough,"  said  Vernon, 
"if-  — ."  Stanley  stared  at  him.  He  had 
stopped  short  abruptly ;  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  ceiling ;  and  he  was  biting  his  lip 
as  if  in  acute  pain.  Presently,  with  a  visible 
effort,  he  recovered  himself.  "  If,"  he  re- 
sumed, "  if  I  could  be  sure  of  two  things, 
that  the  woman  I  loved  had  a  soul  to  give 
to  God,  and  that  she  cared  to  give  it.  But 
even  then,  you  see,  an  assent  of  the  reason 
is  needed.  Belief  should  precede,  or  at  least 
accompany,  feeling." 

"  You  are  speaking,  I  think,"  said  Vernon, 
"  of  the  love  of  man  for  woman.  Surely,  for 


368  A  Romance  of 

you,  then,  that  is  a  somewhat  singular  doc- 
trine. As  far  as  I  can  understand  the  Cath- 
olic view  of  life,  its  chief  aim  and  object  is 
the  love — not  of  woman,  but  God." 
"  You  are  perfectly  right  there." 
"Very  well,"  said  Vernon,  "rob  life  of  its 
aim,  and  begin  your  amours  then.  A  woman, 
then,  is  a  mere  animal  like  yourself ;  and  if 
your  desires  are  very  strongly  set  on  her,  she 
will  be  far  more  likely  to  quench  your  relig- 
ious longings  than  to  excite  them.  So  far 
as  I  can  see  there  is  but  one  simple  way  in 
which  human  love  can  be  allied  with  divine 
love,  and  blessed  by  the  Christian  Church ; 
and  that  is  by  treating  it  as  a  mutual  exhor- 
tation on  the  part  of  those  concerned  in  it  to 
the  service  and  love  of  God.  In  so  far  as  it 
is  more  than  this,  in  so  far  as  their  attention 
fixes  itself  not  on  God,  but  on  their  own  two 
personalities,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be, 
from  your  stand-point,  a  concession  to  hu- 
man weakness,  not  an  element  of  Christian 
strength." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  said  Stanley.    "  You  are 
confusing  two  things — the  characteristic  error 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  369 

of  the  whole  modern  school.  Let  me  explain 
to  you  how  the  Church  regards  the  matter, 
and  you  will  find  that  her  view  is  a  more 
liberal  one  than  yours.  The  Church  teaches 
that,  sin  only  excepted,  God  made  every- 
thing. He  made  man  and  he  made  man's 
affections,  and  he  implanted  in  each  of  us 
what  Saint  Thomas  calls  an  interior  instinct, 
by  which,  when  developed,  we  recognize  his 
existence.  From  my  point  of  view,  as  you 
call  it,  that  is  a  fact,  is  it  not,  as  much  as  the 
law  of  gravity  ? " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  Very  well  then,  the  fact  remains,  whether 
or  no  we  believe  in  it.  Apples  fell  to  the 
ground  before  the  days  of  Newton,  and  souls 
may  be  moved  to  God  even  before  they 
know  of  his  existence.  One  of  the  chief 
ways  in  which  they  are  thus  moved  is 
through  the  affections.  These  human  affec- 
tions are  the  expressions  of  God's  will,  and 
rightly  exercised  they  are  in  themselves  good. 
There  is  something  holy  in  the  love  of  a 
brother  as  a  brother,  or  of  a  wife  as  a  wife, 
but  these  are  not  to  be  confounded  with  the 
24 


37O  A  Romance  of 

love  of  God,  any  more  than  they  are  to  be 
dissolved  from  it.  They  are  so  like  it,  how- 
ever, that  they  prepare  the  way  for  it."  Stan- 
ley looked  at  Vernon  and  saw  how  worn  his 
face  was.  "  Do  you  see,"  he  added,  gently, 
"  what  my  meaning  is  ?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  Vernon,  "  and  yet  it  does 
not  meet  all  my  question.  Still,  I  shall  think 
it  over." 

He  said  this  sadly,  and  with  an  absent  air, 
as  if  his  thoughts  were  wandering. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Stanley,  who  had  been 
watching  his  face  anxiously,  "  that  you  did 
not  mistake  my  meaning  when  I  spoke  about 
religion  and  emotion.  Emotion,  that  is  affec- 
tion, is  the  very  heart  of  religion ;  and  the 
surest  way  to  be  forever  cut  off  from  God,  is, 
not  to  be  misled  by  the  intellect,  which  does 
but  divert  your  eyes  from  him  ;  but  to  quench 
your  powers  of  loving,  which  is  putting  your 
eyes  out." 

"  He  says  the  same  thing  that  Campbell 
said,"  thought  Vernon  when  Stanley  had  de- 
parted. "  After  all,  I  suppose  there  is  some- 
thing in  it.  Something  ! — why,  once  when  I 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  371 

had  faith  like  Stanley's,  I  might  have  said 
the  same  myself.  A  pure  human  affection  is 
the  calyx  of  divine  faith.  But  what  is  my 
condition  ?  Stanley  has  not  touched  upon 
that.  What  haunts  and  threatens  me  is  the 
foregone  conclusion  that  divine  faith  is  a  lie/ 
This  set  of  thoughts  seemed  for  a  long  time 
stationary,  occupying  his  mind  like  the  figure 
in  a  kaleidoscope.  But  at  last  a  touch  came, 
and  the  figure  changed.  That  touch  was 
given  by  the  image  of  Miss  Walters,  as,  with 
her  "  pale,  predestined  face,"  she  came  gliding 
like  a  ghost  across  his  imagination.  "  My 
own  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  as  he  started  from 
the  sofa  he  was  lying  on,  "  you  may  at  least 
reach  God  through  me,  though  I  may  never 
reach  him  through  you."  This  passionate 
thought  filled  and  overmastered  him,  and  the 
listless  bitterness  he  had  felt  all  through  the 
evening  disappeared  before  it.  "  I  must  write 
to  you,"  he  said,  "even  though  I  cannot  speak 
to  you." 

His  pen  moved  rapidly ;  he  never  paused 
to  hesitate.  "  You  entirely  fill  my  thoughts," 
he  began.  "  Your  image  haunts  me,  your 


372  A  Romance  of 

eyes  are  looking  at  me.  My  white  angel, 
my  pure  lily  of  Eden  !  Yes,  you  are  that  by 
nature.  For  God's  sake,  my  own  one,  be 
true  to  yourself.  For  God's  sake,  I  say  ;— 
well,  and  for  mine  too,  if  you  like  it — for 
mine  too.  All  my  life  is  turned  into  one 
long  mute  prayer  for  you,  that  you  may  put 
away  from  yourself  every  taint  of  evil.  Hate 
it,  learn  to  hate  it!  Let  it  revolt  you  as  it 
once  revolted  you  !  I  will  do  all  I  can  ;  but 
don't  trust  to  me  only.  Help  me  too  ;  try  to 
see  with  your  own  eyes.  My  sight  is  very 
feeble  ;  I  am  but  a  poor  guide  to  God.  I  am 
like  a  blind  man  leading  the  blind.  I  only 
discern  a  glimmering,  feeble  light,  and  I  am 
trying  my  best  to  feel  my  way  toward  it,  carry- 
ing you  with  me.  Will  you  not  try  to  open 
your  own  eyes  also,  and  give  me  a  little 
counsel  —  a  little  assurance?  My  head  is 
heavy,  my  eyelids  ache  with  sadness.  Did  I 
not  love  you,  I  should  have  only  asked  to 
possess  you.  Your  lips  and  arms  could  have 
given  me  all  I  longed  for.  But  love  is  stron- 
ger than  passion,  and  its  demands  are  limit- 
less, not  for  the  lover,  but  for  the  loved.  I 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  373 

am  not  trying  to  use  fine  language  when  I 
say  that  I  am  consumed  with  care  for  you. 
Scales  have  fallen  from  my  eyes ;  I  see  now 
what  I  never  saw  before,  and  that  is  the 
meaning  of  Christ's  love  for  men — his  long- 
ing for  their  salvation.  Oh  Cynthia,  could  I 
only  die  for  you — could  I  only  take  your  sins 
on  my  head !  Pierce  my  hands  with  nails — 
let  me  hang  on  the  tree  in  agony,  if  only  I 
might  bear  your  sins  and  leave  you  once  more 
spotless.  I  would  be  scourged,  and  spit  upon. 
I  would  let  my  whole  life  be  broken. 

"  Cynthia,  my  knowledge  of  you  has  in- 
deed worked  a  change  in  me  1 " 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

T7"ERNON'S  state  of  mind  next  morning 
was  not  changed ;  he  was  still  pos- 
sessed by  the  same  sorrow  and  solicitude. 
This,  it  is  true,  was  not  utterly  unrelieved. 
The  woman  who  had  thus  so  completely 
filled  his  imagination,  had  confessed — had 
insisted  on  her  love  for  him.  In  this  fact 
certainly  there  was  food  for  satisfaction  ; 
and  flying  gleams  of  the  most  delicious  hap- 
piness would  at  moments  illuminate  all  his 
mental  landscape  with 

"The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land." 

But  these  did  but  serve  to  make  his  gloom 
gloomier ;  and  his  heart  ached  with  pain 
whenever  it  beat  with  pleasure.  In  this 
somber  condition  he  betook  himself  out-of- 

377 


378  A  Romance  of 

doors,  to  chew  the  cud  of  his  disquietude. 
First  he  paced  his  garden,  but  its  bounds 
seemed  soon  too  narrow  for  him,  and  he 
strayed  into  the  public  road.  Not  far  from 
his  own  gates  were  those  of  the  Chateau  St. 
John  ;  and  as  he  was  passing  these  he  could 
not  but  pause.  He  leaned  his  forehead 
against  the  bars,  and  looked  up  the  winding 
drive.  It  was  a  green  vista  of  eucalyptus 
and  of  orange-trees,  with  here  and  there  a 
cloud  of  foamy  lilac-blossom ;  but  its  soft 
beauty  did  but  fill  Vernon  with  bitterness. 
The  one  thought  that  kept  on  repeating 
itself  was,  "  My  Cynthia,  could  I  save  you,  I 
would  die  for  you."  Once  a  carriage  passed, 
which  had  two  well-dressed  strangers  in  it. 
At  the  first  sound  of  wheels  he  had  suddenly 
faced  about,  in  the  fantastic  hope  that  it 
might  be  Miss  Walters  coming  back  again ; 
but  after  an  instant's  glance  he  turned  away 
impatiently.  He  could  not  endure  the  sen- 
sation that  he  was  stared  at.  Not  long  after 
he  heard  more  wheels  approaching  ;  but  this 
time  he  had  no  impulse  to  look  ;  he  tried 
not  even  to  listen.  Listen,  however,  he  soon 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  379 

found  he  must,  when  the  following  sound 
struck  on  him. 

"  John  "-—it  was  uttered  in  a  voice  that, 
though  somewhat  raised,  was  like  velvet — 
"  is  this  where  Lady  Walters  lives,  do  you 
know  ? " 

"  I  believe  it  is,  your  Grace." 

"  Is  it  worth  trying,  I  wonder?" — this  was 
addressed  to  another  person.  "  Shall  I  go 
and  leave  a  card  on  her  ?  Come — get  up 
for  a  moment ;  you  must  be  sitting  on  my 
card-case." 

In  answer  to  this  injunction  came  a  slight 
leonine  groan  ;  but  it  was  quickly  drowned, 
for  the  velvet  voice  welled  forth  again,  "  Well, 
upon  my  word,  if  that  is  not  Mr.  Vernon  ! " 

Vernon  at  this  was  compelled  to  turn  and 
show  himself,  and  there  face  to  face  with  him, 
in  a  large  open  carriage,  was  the  duchess, 
Lord  Surbiton,  and  a  smart-looking  young 
lady  of  some  sort. 

"Well,"  said  her  Grace,  "and  you  are  a 
nice  young  man,  you  are  !  I  have  been  here 
for  two  whole  days,  and  you  have  never  once 
been  to  show  yourself." 


380  A  Romance  of 

Vernon  replied  that  he  had  not  known  of 
her  arrival. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  you're  a  great 
deal  better  employed.  This  is  far  more  ro- 
mantic, isn't  it,  than  red  fans  and  restau- 
rants ?  " 

"  What  is  ?  "  said  Vernon,  absently. 

"  What  ?  to  be  looking  through  a  gate  up 
a  lovely  young  lady's  avenue  —  especially 
when  it's  a  young  lady  you  have  already 
carried  off  in  your  carriage.  However,  Mr. 
Vernon,  you  go  further  than  the  gate,  I 
suppose,  sometimes." 

The  duchess  did  not  laugh  ;  but  her  voice 
when  she  was  amused  had  a  certain  subtle 
quality  which  not  only  expressed  her  amuse- 
ment, but  transmitted  it.  It  passed  now  with 
Vernon  like  an  electric  shock.  He  was  in- 
stantly confronted  with  an  absurd  image  of 
himself,  and  to  his  own  intense  surprise  he 
heard  himself  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  I  was  not  waiting  to 
take  her  another  drive,  for  both  she  and  her 
aunt  are  away  at  the  present  moment." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  duchess,  "there 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  381 

is  our  question  solved.  We  will  put  off  leav- 
ing our  cards,  and  will  go  straight  home  again. 
Wait  a  bit,  though.  Lord  Surbiton,  you  had 
better  get  out  and  walk,  or  else  you'll  be  hav- 
ing indigestion  again,  and  be  unable  to  eat 
your  dinner.  Come,  out  you  get — I  know 
exactly  what  is  good  for  you.  And  listen," 
she  added,  when  Lord  Surbiton  had  at  last 
descended,  "  you  may  as  well  give  me  my  furs 
back  again.  You  won't  want  them  you  know, 
when  you're  getting  warm  walking."  Then 
turning  to  Vernon,  "And  now,"  she  said, 
"since  you're  not  waiting  for  anybody,  sup- 
pose you  come  back  with  us,  and  let  us  give 
you  some  tea.  Whenever  I  see  any  one 
now,  I  am  dying  to  show  my  mansion  to 
them." 

Vernon  mechanically  accepted  this  invita- 
tion. He  took  his  seat  opposite  the  young 
lady,  and  was  vaguely  conscious  of  being 
introduced  to  Miss  Ethel  somebody.  "Mr. 
Vernon,"  the  duchess  said — "a  philosopher, 
and  a  great  admirer  of  every  species  of 
beauty."  Miss  Ethel's  eyes  were  sparkling, 
and  they  watched  the  duchess  continually, 


382  A  Romance  of 

as  though  every  instant  she  was  expecting 
some  amusement. 

"  Has  Lord  Surbiton,"  she  said  presently, 
"  got  indigestion  ?  What  a  very  unromantic 
thing  for  a  poet  ! " 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  duchess,  "  it  is  no 
wonder  he  has,  considering  the  way  he  feeds 
himself.  When  he  arrived  the  other  day  to 
stay  with  me,  what  should  you  think  he  had 
brought  with  him  ?  A  cold  plum  pudding,  if 
you  please,  wrapped  up  in  his  carpet-bag ;  and 
he  actually  eats  slices  of  it  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  What  did  he  do,  Mr.  Vernon, 
that  time  you  were  good  enough  to  entertain 
him  ?  One  thing  I  know  he  did  not  do — and 
that  was  to  give  my  order  to  the  gardener. 
What  I  told  him  to  say  was  that  I  could  have 
no  ants  on  the  walks,  and  that  they  were  to 
be  killed  with  boiling  water.  Now  I  ask  old 
Surbiton  if  he  made  this  quite  clear  to  the 
man,  and  that  when  I  give  an  order  I  mean 
it ;  and  all  I  can  get  out  of  him  is  that 
countess  somebody — I  don't  know  her  name 
or  nation — has  the  finest  ankle  he  ever  saw. 
I  told  him  ankles  were  all  very  well ;  but 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  383 

it's  not  so  nice  when  you  have  ants  biting 
them." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Miss  Ethel,  "but  didn't  Col- 
onel  Stapleton  give  your  message  ?  " 

"As  for  Colonel  Stapleton,"  said  the 
duchess,  "  he's  even  worse  than  Lord  Sur- 
biton.  He  seems  to  have  spent  his  entire 
time  with  Miss  Walters,  till  the  wind  was 
taken  out  of  his  sails  by — who  should  you 
think  ?  The  curate.  It  strikes  me,  Mr. 
Vernon,  that  you  have  not  been  doing  all 
you  might  have  done,  if  you  let  your  special 
young  lady  fall  into  other  people's  hands  like 
this.  I  assure  you  our  fat  colonel  is  full  of 
her.  I  was  going  to  have  asked  him  over  to 
stay  with  me,  only  I  was  afraid  Mrs.  Grantly 
would  have  his  eyes  out.  However,  he  shall 
come  for  my  fancy  ball.  That  will  be  quite 
safe.  There  will  be  no  time  then  for  grum- 
bling." 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Ethel,  "Colonel 
Stapleton  is  very  amusing." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  asked  Vernon,  with 
an  odd,  blank  abruptness. 

"  Oh,  yes.     He  has  staid  with  us  twice  for 


384  A  Romance  of 

Ascot  week.     We  have  a  small  house  near 
the  race-course." 

"Amusing!"  said  the  duchess.  "Oh  yes, 
of  course  he  is ;  and  so  artful,  which  is  far 
better  than  amusing.  He's  going  to  order 
me  all  my  Chinese  lanterns,  and  my  blue  and 
red  fire,  and  -  -  I  forget  what  else.  Oh, 
some  Strasburg  pies,  and  some  specially  dry 
champagne.  I  quite  delight  in  the  colonel. 
He's  a  most  unselfish  creature." 

Vernon  listened  to  all  this  as  though  it 
were  a  noise  in  a  dream,  making  little  effort 
himself  except  at  some  random  smiles. 
Presently  under  the  wheels  came  the  crunch- 
ing of  new-laid  gravel,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment or  two  they  were  at  the  door  of  the 
grand  hotel. 

Vernon  had  been  in  the  building  several 
times  before  ;  but  when  he  now  entered  he 
saw  such  a  metamorphosis  that,  for  the  time 
being  at  least,  he  was  surprised  into  common 
attention.  Where  there  had  hitherto  been  a 
bleak  solitude,  there  was  now  life  and  luxury. 
The  large  entrance  hall  was  green  with  palm- 
trees,  and  gay  with  flowers.  The  white  mar- 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  385 

ble  floor  was  strewn  with  Oriental  carpets, 
and  on  the  softest  of  these  was  a  yelping 
Pomeranian  dog.  There  were  larger  tables 
draped  with  bright  -  colored  heavy  clothes, 
and  covered  with  books,  photograph-frames, 
and  a  thousand-and-one  knickknacks.  A  stout 
English  butler  and  a  spruce  groom-of-the 
chamber  gave  to  the  scene  a  dignity  all  their 
own,  and  busy  under  their  direction  were 
some  footmen  with  red  waistcoats.  Hardly 
had  her  Grace  entered  when  a  variety  of 
orders,  in  tones  of  silver  conveying  a  will  of 
iron,  went  flying  in  all  directions.  "  Put  that 
plant  nearer  the  wall."  "  Where  are  you 
going  with  those  Venetian  glasses?"  "  How 
often  have  I  told  you  that  those  doors  are 
to  be  never  left  open  ! "  In  answer  to  which 
came  the  rapid  but  hushed  response  of  "Yes, 
your  Grace  ;"  "  No,  your  Grace." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  the  duchess, 
"you  must  come  and  look  at  the  drawing- 
room  ;  or  rather,  to  be  quite  accurate,  I  should 
say  one  of  the  drawing-rooms ;  for  I  assure 
you  our  splendor  here  is  quite  political,  and 
we  have  five  or  six  of  them.  There ! "  she 
25 


386  A  Romance  of 

said  as  they  entered,  "  it's  getting  to  look 
liveable ;  but  there  are  still  some  screens 
and  things  that  I  want  a  little  advice  about." 

"  My  !  Mr.  Vernon,  and  is  this  you  again?" 
exclaimed  a  lady,  slowly  raising  herself  from 
an  exceedingly  deep  arm-chair.  It  was  none 
other  than  Mrs.  Grantly,  looking  the  picture 
of  piquant  languor,  and  arrayed  in  the  most 
charming  of  tea-gowns.  "  I  guess,  Duchess," 
she  said,  "  I'm  just  tired  out.  I've  been 
around  for  the  last  two  hours  showing  Barnes 
where  to  place  the  flowers.  Well,  Mr.  Ver- 
non, and  how  are  you  by  this  time  ?  Are 
you  getting  along  pretty  well  out  here  ?  " 

Vernon  made  some  answer  to  this,  but 
one  so  little  in  his  usual  manner  that  Mrs. 
Grantly  was  quite  struck  by  it.  "  Duchess," 
she  exclaimed,  "  here  is  Mr.  Vernon  quite 
out  of  sorts.  He  thinks,  like  Lord  Surbiton, 
that  all  life  is  hollow." 

"  That's  a  great  deal  more  than  Lord  Sur- 
biton himself  is,"  said  the  duchess,  "at  least 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I've  been  tell- 
ing him,  and  I  may  now  tell  Mr.  Vernon,  that 
if  they  think  life  hollow,  they  had  better  go 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  387 

in  as  I  do,  not  for  cold  plum-pudding,  but  for 
old  furniture.  Look,  Mr.  Vernon,  there  is 
my  last  purchase — those  six  Louis  Seize  chairs. 
I  bought  them  at  Grasse,  out  of  the  house 
of  a  certain  notary.  Four  thousand  francs  is 
the  sum  he  has  done  me  out  of ;  and  now  his 
daughter,  I  hear,  is  going  to  law  with  him, 
because  she  declares  they  are  her  heir-loom." 

Vernon  praised  the  chairs  with  as  much 
interest  as  he  could  muster,  and  then  forced 
himself  to  say  something  h  propos  of  the  fancy 
ball. 

"  You'd  better,"  said  the  duchess  "be  get- 
ting a  dress  ready,  for  I  can  tell  you,  we 
shan't  allow  any  idle  make-shifts — none  of 
your  black  dress-coats  with  a  bit  of  pink  satin 
tacked  on  to  them." 

"  I  have  a  dress,"  said  Vernon.  "It  is  a 
Spanish  peddler's.  It  makes  me  look  rather 
a  blackguard,  but  I  suppose  that  doesn't 
matter." 

"  Oh,  dear  no,"  said  the  duchess.  "  It 
will  only  make  you  popular." 

"  And  when,"  said  Vernon,  "  is  this  fes- 
tivity to  be  ?  " 


388  A   Romance  of 

11  As  soon  as  we  can  manage  it.  I  don't 
quite  know  yet  who  will  be  in  the  house,  but 
I  shall  know  more  presently,  when  the  post 
comes.  I  mean  to  ask  about  a  hundred  from 
Cannes,  and  about  half  that  number  from 
Nice." 

At  this  moment  tea  made  its  appearance, 
and  with  the  tea  a  large  budget  of  letters. 
"  You  must  excuse  me,"  said  the  duchess,  as 
she  tore  open  envelope  after  envelope,  "  but 
these  are  all  from  our  expected  guests.  I 
think,"  she  went  on  presently,  when  the  work 
of  inspection  was  over,  "  I  think  we  may 
manage  the  ball  toward  the  end  of  the 
coming  week.  Montey  Moreton  comes  to- 
morrow, who  will  of  course  lead  the  cotillon, 
and  I  must  have  a  talk  with  him  about  it." 

The  sight  of  the  post's  arrival  made  Ver- 
non  restless.  He  longed  to  go  home  to  see 
if  there  were  no  letters  for  him ;  but  the 
duchess  loved  conversation,  and  he  was  un- 
able to  get  free.  At  last,  however,  a  sud- 
den rescue  came.  Captain  Grantly  entered 
the  room,  with  the  Sporting  Times  in  his 
hand.  In  an  instant  the  duchess  turned  to 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  389 

•mm,  and  a  sudden  gust  of  the  spirit  sent  her 
thoughts  in  a  new  direction.  "  Well,  Captain 
Grantly,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  what  about 
the  City  and  Suburban  ?  " 

Vernon  saw  his  opportunity,  and  at  once 
made  use  of  it ;  but  when  he  was  at  the  door 
he  was  again  recalled  for  a  moment.  "Mr. 
Vernon,"  said  her  Grace,  "  come  and  dine 
with  us  to-morrow.  We  shall  be  a  larger 
party  by  that  time." 

He  had  no  excuse  to  plead,  so  he  accepted 
and  went  his  way. 

This  sudden  plunge  into  the  common  noises 
of  life  confused  Vernon  at  first  as  a  sudden 
fall  from  a  cliff  might.  It  made  him  feel  for 
the  moment  doubtful  where  he  was.  Per- 
haps in  some  degree  this  was  a  slight  relief 
to  him,  but  the  shock  soon  wore  away,  and 
his  former  cares  returned  to  him.  When  he 
entered  his  own  house,  however,  he  at  once 
found  food  for  excitement.  Lying  on  his 
table  was  a  letter  from  Miss  Walters.  It 
was  dated  "  San  Remo." 

"  We  arrived  here,"  she  wrote,  "  at  about 
six  o'clock.  There  was  such  a  lovely  sunset 


3QO  A  Romance  of 

— such  spaces  of  clear  primrose,  fading  be- 
hind violet  hills.  I  don't  know  why — but  as 
I  looked  at  it,  it  made  me  think  of  you.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  I  associate  you  with  every- 
thing that  is  pure,  and  suggests  withdrawal 
from  earth."  As  Vernon  read  this  he  raised 
the  letter  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  "  The 
post  goes  at  ten,"  it  went  on ;  "  and  I  have 
very  little  time ;  but  I  must,  I  must  write  to 
you.  I  have  been  so  saddened  this  evening. 
Mrs.  Crane  has  been  talking  to  me  about 
Alic  Campbell — only  for  a  few  minutes,  it  is 
true  ;  but  she  will  begin  again  to-morrow. 
It  is  so  hard — I  was  going  to  say  so  tire- 
some ;  but  this  is  not  the  thing  that  I  want 
to  write  about.  It  is  you — it  is  only  you.  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  good,  how  forbearing 
you  have  been  to  me  ;  and  yet  words  can 
never  give  my  meaning.  No,  my  own,  and 
nothing  ever  can,  unless  some  day  or  other 
my  life  does.  I  was  miserable  when  you 
knew  me,  but  it  was  with  a  hopeless  misery. 
There  was  no  germ  of  any  amendment  in  it, 
and  the  only  effort  I  made  was  a  lazy  effort 
to  kill  it.  Don't  you  remember  what  I  said 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  391 

to  you  that  first  morning  in  the  garden, 
about  my  thinking  that  the  church  laid  too 
much  stress  upon  purity  ?  I  tried  to  per- 
suade myself  that  we  daily — even  the  best  of 
us — did  things  far  worse  than  those  special 
ones  that  tormented  me.  But  oh,  I  could 
not.  I  was  but  a  very  half-hearted  liar  to 
myself  ;  and  you  at  a  touch  put  all  my  lies  to 
flight.  Had  you  not  done  that  I  should  have 
gone  on  sinking  deeper.  You  found  me  not 
so  much  drowning  as  being  sucked  down  in 
a  quicksand ;  and  you  held  out  a  hand  to 
help  me.  If  you  do  not  let  me  go,  I  shall 
by  and  by,  I  hope,  free  myself  ;  but  oh,  I 
have  one  prayer  to  make  to  you.  Do  not  be 
too  hard  on  me.  Make  a  little  concession  to 
my  extreme  weakness.  Let  me  love  you  and 
love  goodness  for  your  sake,  a  little  while 
longer,  without  asking  me  to  do  more  than 
that.  Some  day,  if  you  will  still  help  me, 
and  hold  me,  and  keep  me  pressed  close  to 
you,  I  may  be  able  to  say  what  I  suppose 
you  want  me  to  say : — "  I  love  God  even 
more  than  I  love  you ;  and  yet  for  this 
very  reason  I  love  you  more  than  ever." 


39 2  -A  Romance  of 

But  I  can't  say  that  yet.  Have  patience  : 
I  shall  learn  in  time.  I  wonder.  I  often 
wonder — was  God  ever  as  kind  to  a  sinner 
as  you  have  been  ?  Your  own  unhappy 
Cynthia." 

All  this  covered  several  pages,  and  from 
the  middle  of  them  there  dropped  out  a  small 
packet.  The  nature  of  this  was  explained  in 
a  brief  postscript :  "  I  have  found  in  my 
despatch  box  the  inclosed  little  picture  of 
myself.  I  hate  it  for  what  it  reminds  me  of  ; 
but  if  you  can  allow  it  to  remind  you  only  of 
me,  perhaps  you  might  like  to  have  it." 

Vernon  undid  the  wrappings  of  silver  pa- 
per, and  found  within  a  small  oval  photo- 
graph, finished  with  extreme  skill  like  a  min- 
iature. There  Miss  Walters  was  ;  there  was 
no  mistaking  her.  She  was  in  a  white  ball 
dress,  with  her  fair  shoulders  visible,  and  a 
scarlet  and  silver  opera-cloak  clinging,  but 
barely  clinging  to  them.  Her  eyes  looked 
full  at  you  ;  her  cheek  rested  on  her  beautiful 
clasped  hands  ;  and  round  her  fair  hair  was  a 
wreath  of  the  darkest  myrtle-leaves.  Vernon 
gazed  at  it  fascinated ;  it  seemed  to  speak  to 


The  Nineteenth   Century  393 

him.  There  was  in  her  cheeks  a  deep  rose- 
tint  which,  when  he  had  known  her,  was 
habitual.  He  could  have  almost  fancied  that 
they  blushed  because  he  looked  on  them. 
What  did  the  picture  mean  ?  Her  expression 
in  it,  her  very  attitude,  was  ambiguous.  It 
might  be  that  of  a  Magdalen  in  sanctity,  on 
the  brink  of  relapsing  into  sin  ;  or  a  Magdalen 
in  sin  on  the  eve  of  seeking  for  the  Saviour. 
As  he  continued  looking,  the  duchess  and 
her  friends  faded  in  his  memory  till  they  be- 
came nothing  but  irksome  shadows ;  and  his 
one  impulse  was  to  immure  himself  with  the 
image  of  this  beautiful  woman.  The  direction 
his  thoughts  were  taking  became  soon  appa- 
rent to  him.  "If  she  will  not  be  God's," 
he  said,  "she  must  and  she  shall  be  mine  !" 
He  looked  at  the  picture  again,  and  he  no- 
ticed a  new  detail  in  it.  On  her  bosom  there 
hung  a  locket.  His  attention  fixed  on  this, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  bore  some 
inscription.  There  was  a  small  magnifying 
glass  on  the  table  close  at  hand,  and  with 
its  aid  he  deciphered  two  initials.  They 
were  "J.  S." 


394  A  Romance  of 

"Jack  Stapleton!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
seizing  the  picture  he  tore  it  into  small  frag- 
ments. 

He  was  a  sober  man  again.  He  now  went 
back  to  her  letter.  He  read  it,  and  he  re- 
read it.  There  was  much  in  it,  but  not  all 
that  he  longed  for.  The  anxiety  that  had 
preyed  upon  him,  the  anxiety  for  another's 
sake,  once  more  took  hold  upon  him ;  and 
when  night  came  he  had  still  failed  to  be 
comforted. 

The  day  following  he  wrote  again  to  Miss 
Walters.  His  letter  expressed  the  same  so- 
licitude as  his  last  one,  and  his  day  was 
occupied  with  the  same  thoughts  about 
her.  As  for  himself,  and  his  own  private 
claims  on  her,  these  were  cauterized,  so  to 
speak,  by  the  fire  of  his  unselfish  longings. 
Her  welfare,  not  his  own  satisfaction,  was 
in  literal  truth  the  one  thing  that  engross- 
ed him — at  least  the  one  personal  thing. 
There  is  that  exception  necessary.  For 
with  his  wishes  for  Miss  Walters  wider 
thoughts  would  mix  themselves,  and  he 
could  not  but  identify  the  hopes  of  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  305 

human  race,  as  a  whole,  with  those  he  en- 
tertained or  despaired  of  for  one  woman 
in  particular. 

Much  to  his  annoyance  a  certain  recollec- 
tion haunted  him — the  recollection  of  his 
engagement  to  dine  that  night  with  the 
duchess. 


i  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   II. 

TT  was  not  to  be  helped  however.  As  eight 
•*-  o'clock  was  striking,  the  tall  doors  of  the 
hotel  were  being  thrown  wide  to  receive  him. 
Well-trained  servants,  with  all  the  manners  of 
London,  were  adroitly  helping  him  to  get  rid  of 
his  great  coat.  More  doors  were  opened,  and 
then,  sharply  and  in  an  instant,  came  the  sea- 
like  murmur  of  the  polite  world  conversing. 

The  duchess's  party  had  indeed  increased 
by  this  time.  The  dim  air  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, stained  with  subdued  lamp-light, 
seemed  full  of  varied  colorings,  from  the 
dresses  of  divers  ladies.  Vernon,  as  he 
entered,  had  almost  a  sense  of  shyness.  His 
eyes  were  not  dazzled,  but  he  felt  as  if  his 
mind  were  blinking.  He  was  breathing  an 
atmosphere  that  it  seemed  he  had  long  been 


The   Nineteenth    Century.  397 

a  stranger  to.  Here  was  the  London  world 
once  more  enfolding  him  with  its  familiar 
sights  and  sounds,  and  full  of  the  memories 
of  the  pleasures  it  once  gave  him.  He  felt 
it  to  be  all  unusual.  It  gave  him  a  giddy 
sense,  as  if  he  had  just  come  off  a  steamer. 
Still  he  was  obliged  to  exert  himself ;  it  was 
impossible  to  shirk  into  a  corner.  Before 
long  he  discovered  an  old  acquaintance  or 
two,  and  as  he  moved  from  one  to  the  other, 
he  felt  himself  getting  more  at  home  again. 
When  they  went  into  dinner,  Miss  Ethel 
fell  to  his  share,  looking  exceedingly  bright 
and  pretty ;  and  she  reminded  him,  with  a 
slight  tone  of  reproach,  that  she  had  met  him 
before  in  London.  The  long  dinner  table, 
with  all  its  gleam  and  glitter,  gave  Vernon 
an  experience  like  that  of  a  saint's  inverted. 
He  was  being  dazzled  by  a  vision — not  of  the 
next  world,  but  this ;  and  it  seemed  to  be 
moving  him  to  reverse  his  old  communion 
with  it.  Miss  Ethel's  brightness  began  pres- 
ently to  tell  on  him.  It  was  of  a  quiet, 
almost  a  demure  kind,  but  it  possessed  the 
power  of  provoking  men  to  respond  to  it : 


398  A  Romance  of 

nor  did  Vernon  prove  an  exception.  Cham« 
pagne,  too,  came  to  assist  its  influence,  and 
very  soon  he  began  to  laugh  quite  naturally. 
By  the  middle  of  dinner  he  had  become  so 
mundane  in  his  mind,  that  he  turned  round 
and  glanced  at  his  neighbor  on  the  other 
side.  He  wondered  when  he  had  done  this, 
that  he  had  not  done  so  sooner.  She  was  a 
dark  woman,  singularly  beautiful,  with  luxu- 
rious long-lashed  eyes.  In  a  minute  or  two 
these  eyes  met  Vernon's,  and  said  plainly 
that  she  would  be  very  glad  to  talk  to  him. 
Upon  this  he  achieved  that  prettiest  of  all 
toy  adventures — the  breaking  that  dainty, 
delicate  ice-film  which  exists  between  guests 
in  the  same  house,  when  they  have  not  been 
introduced  formally. 

After  dinner,  when  the  gentlemen  had 
re-arranged  themselves,  Vernon  found  that 
sitting  next  to  him  was  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  his  county — a  peer  of  great  distinction, 
and  a  Conservative  ex-minister.  Here  was 
a  new  distraction.  The  noble  lord  at  once 
plunged  into  politics  and  home  matters.  He 
soon  gave  others  a  flattering  personal  turn. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  399 

"  I  can  tell  you,'1  he  said,  "  you  made  yourself 
extremely  popular  in shire.  I  was  talk- 
ing the  other  day  to  one  of  the  farmers  from 
your  part,  who  calls  himself — so  he  told  me 
— a  Radical.  Well,  in  spite  of  your  politics, 
you  had  won  his  heart,  I  can  assure  you ;  and 
I  hear  the  same  story  of  you  in  various  other 
quarters.  The  Workmen's  Conservative  Club, 
which  you  did  so  much  to  help  forward,  is 
getting  on  admirably.  I  hope  sincerely  that 
you  are  still  thinking  of  Parliament.  I've 
not  the  least  doubt,  for  my  own  part,  that  if 
there  were  a  petition,  we  should  unseat  Tom 
Bowden  ;  and  in  the  event  of  another  contest, 
no  one  would  have  a  chance  against  you." 

All  this  discourse  put  Vernon  in  better 
spirits.  He  began  to  feel  he  was  waking  up 
in  earnest.  He  waived  the  allusions  to  him- 
self, although  he  was  not  insensible  to  them  ; 
but  he  plunged  with  interest  into  various 
questions  of  politics  ;  and  the  image  of  Miss 
Walters,  which  had  been  hitherto  still  watch- 
ing him,  seemed  to  melt  at  such  magic  words 
as  land,  labor,  and  capital. 

Meanwhile,  there  had  been  a  change  made 


400  A  Romance  of 

in  the  drawing-room.  A  large  curtain  at  one 
end  had  been  raised,  vand  displayed  the  drop- 
scene  of  a  charming  miniature  theatre.  The 
gentlemen  once  more  showed  themselves ; 
and,  to  the  slight  alarm  of  some  of  them,  it 
appeared  there  were  to  be  some  charades. 
Vernon  was  pressed  to  take  part,  but  he  re- 
fused stoutly.  His  sadness,  banished  for  a 
moment,  was  already  coming  back  to  him. 
He  found,  however,  that  no  denial  would  be 
taken ;  and  when  he  found  that  he  would 
be  acting  with  his  dark-eyed  neighbor  of 
the  dinner-table,  he  consented  with  sufficient 
grace. 

When  the  corps  dramatique  were  retiring 
to  mature  their  plans,  he  discovered  a  fa- 
miliar presence,  which  had  till  now  escaped 
him.  This  was  Mrs.  Crane,  exceedingly 
well  pleased  with  herself  for  being  of  the 
duchess's  party,  and  looking  at  himself  with 
a  charity  all  her  own.  She  informed  him 
she  was  not  going  to  act  herself,  but  that  she 
was  ready  to  do  her  best  in  the  green-room, 
and  that  she  would  rouge  or  powder  any- 
body, provided  it  was  not  a  woman.  Noth- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  401 

ing  could  have  been  less  pleasant  to  Vernon 
than  the  apparition  of  this  lady ;  and  though 
he  tried  to  be  as  civil  as  he  could  to  her,  he 
left  her  on  the  very  first  opportunity. 

The  charades  began.  Vernon  felt  from 
the  first  moment  that  he  and  his  dark-eyed 
beauty  had  some  sort  of  attraction  for  each 
other ;  and  when  the  concluding  act  came, 
it  was  his  part  to  make  love  to  her.  From 
old  habit  he  could  not  help  infusing  a  flavor 
of  personal  tribute  into  the  tender  things  he 
said  to  her;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
scene,  he  had  to  lead  her  off  the  stage,  he 
.continued  the  process  till  he  had  brought 
her  out  of  doors  into  the  moonlight.  There  he 
remained  talking  with  her,  leaning  against  a 
great  vase  of  geraniums.  All  his  attentions 
to  her  were  as  unreal  as  a  ghost's ;  but  for 
this  very  reason  he  did  not  attempt  to  check 
them,  and  they  certainly  to  one  observer 
looked  marked  enough.  This  observer  was 
Mrs.  Crane,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
window-curtains,  and,  as  she  observed,  the 
small  passion  broke  in  her,  which,  by  strain- 
ing a  compliment,  might  perhaps  be  called 
26 


402  A  Romance  of 

her  jealousy.  It  was  a  passion  certainly  of 
no  very  dreadful  intensity.  It  might  lead 
her  to  laugh  from  malice ;  it  would  never 
make  her  pale  from  rage ;  and  instead  of 
pursuing  its  subject,  she  would  be  far  more 
likely  to  play  a  practical  joke. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  403 


CHAPTER  III. 

H^HE  events  of  that  evening  were  not  with- 
out their  after  effect  on  Vernon.  He 
carried  away  with  him  from  the  duchess's  a 
certain  amount  of  excitement,  which  deranged 
his  mind  and  was  very  far  from  pleasing  it. 
Since  his  intimacy  with  Miss  Walters,  it  was 
as  though  he  had  been  descending  deep  into 
the  hidden  places  of  life  ;  and  the  world  on 
the  surface,  with  its  laughter,  noise,  and  sun- 
light, had  faded  away  to  a  mere  shadowy 
memory.  His  only  companions  had  been 
thoughts  of  sin,  and  holiness,  and  the  awful 
gulf  between  them  ;  and  his  only  lights  had 
been  tapers  at  shrines  for  prayer.  But  now 
the  darkness  seemed  to  be  slowly  parting, 
and  the  day  and  the  things  of  day  appearing 
like  gray  clouds  through  it.  Sounds  which 


4OA  A  Romance  of 

he  thought  he  had  said  good-by  to  forever 
once  more  assailed  his  ears,  and  mixed  them- 
selves grotesquely  with  the  voices  to  which 
only  he  had  of  late  been  listening.  He  felt 
as  though  two  worlds  had  come  into  collision, 
and  he  was  surrounded  by  the  dissolving  frag- 
ments of  both  of  them.  The  world  of  prayer, 
of  penitence,  and  of  aspiration,  where  sin  was 
the  one  calamity,  and  communion  with  God 
the  one  success  worth  striving  for  ;  the  world, 
on  the  other  hand,  of  balls  and  duchesses,  of 
private  theatricals,  and  the  gossip  of  Mayfair 
— these  two  worlds  seemed  to  have  struck 
and  wrecked  each  other,  and  each  seemed 
equally  unreal. 

So  Vernon  felt  when  he  lay  down  to  rest ; 
so  he  felt,  too,  when  he  awoke  next  morning. 
But  next  morning  there  was  a  new  sign  in 
him.  The  world  which  had  thus  come  back 
again  he  now  felt  had  brought  with  it  a 
breath  of  grateful  air.  He  thought  of  a 
thousand  little  things  that  occurred  last 
night,  or  the  afternoon  before,  and  sighed, 
"  Oh,  God,  if  I  could  only  laugh  at  them  ! 
But  my  heart  aches,  and  the  laughter  I  long 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  405 

for  pains  me."  Still,  even  in  spite  of  this, 
he  had  laughed  somewhat.  He  had  been 
amused  for  moments,  and  had  forgotten  the 
burden  that  was  bound  to  him  ;  and  it  was 
on  his  lips — only  he  checked  himself — to  say 
in  so  many  words,  "  I  have  climbed  up  out  of 
a  charnel  house,  and  have  breathed  the  air  of 
heaven." 

He  was  first  conscious  of  this  change  of 
disposition  when  he  began  to  write  to  Miss 
Walters,  which  he  did  that  afternoon.  His 
words  and  thoughts  would  not  flow  freely  as 
hitherto.  The  intense  solicitude  which  had 
racked  him  for  days  into  misery  was  more  or 
less  relaxed.  It  was  not  that  his  intention 
for  a  moment  wavered.  He  was  still  re- 
solved, as  much  as  ever,  to  help  her ;  but  he 
was  now  master  of  the  resolve,  the  resolve 
was  no  longer  master  of  him.  He  was  not 
happy,  he  had  not  become  light-hearted.  He 
was  in  some  ways  more  wretched  than  ever  ; 
but  a  vision  of  happiness,  a  vision  of  gay 
spirits,  had,  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  once 
more  broken  across  his  life.  "Ah,  Cynthia, 
Cynthia,"  he  thought,  "why  do  you  compel 


406  A  Romance  of 

me  to  be  serious  ?  Could  I  only  be  sure  that 
you  had  recovered  your  own  natural  strength, 
that  you  were  strong  and  confident  in  your 
own  self-respect,  how  happily  we  might  walk 
together  !  Our  fears,  our  hopes,  our  anxie- 
ties need  not  be  kept  always  on  the  stretch. 
What  could  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  laugh 
again  without  an  aching  heart ! "  The  con- 
sciousness of  such  feeling  in  himself  had,  so 
far  as  he  knew,  one  effect  only.  It  turned 
his  moral  devotion  to  Miss  Walters  from  an 
impulse  into  a  conscious  duty.  Because  he 
found  some  difficulty  in  writing  to  her,  he 
only  wrote  more  earnestly,  and  with  intenser 
consideration. 

He  had  just  completed  this  task — it  was 
then  about  four  o'clock  —  when  two  male 
figures  passed  the  windows  of  his  library. 
A  moment  after  these  were  around  and  en- 
tering. They  were  Lord  Surbiton  and  the 
Conservative  ex-minister.  The  visit,  it  ap- 
peared, was  one  of  more  than  ordinary  com- 
pliment. There  was  something  like  business 
at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  of  a  very  flattering 
nature.  The  ex-minister  had  just  received 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  407 

intelligence  that  a  relation  of  his  own,  who 
sat  for  a  certain  borough,  was  to  accept  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds,  and  it  was  now  suggested 
to  Vernon  that  here  was  a  new  opening  for 
him.  Thri  visit  lasted  for  some  time,  and 
then  Vernon  was  left  to  consider  the  matter 
over.  The  new  range  of  prospects  that  were 
now  presented  to  him  stirred  his  mind  like 
fr'jsh,  bracing  sea-wind,  and  he  wandered  out- 
of-doors  to  digest  the  sudden  excitement. 
He  paced  nearly  the  same  ground  that  he 
had  done  two  days  ago,  but  with  different 
thoughts  to  busy  him.  He  passed  again  the 
gates  of  the  Chateau  St.  John,  but  he  did 
not  stop  now  to  peer  through  the  bars  and 
meditate.  Instead  of  that,  he  again  had  re- 
course to  Stanley. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
broke  into  the  priest's  sitting-room,  "  I  have 
come  to  have  another  talk  with  you." 

Stanley  stared  at  his  visitor.  It  was  hardly 
the  same  Vernon.  A  new  light  danced  in 
his  eyes,  there  was  a  gay  smile  on  his  lip. 
"  Stanley,"  he  went  on,  "  I  have  taken  your 
advice  at  last  I  am  going  to  commit  myself, 


408  A  Romance  of 

or  at  least  I  shall  try  to  do  so.  There  is 
another  chance  of  my  getting  into  Parlia- 
ment, and  if  matters  turn  out  as  I  think  they 
will,  I  shall  be  going  home  directly." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Stanley. 
"  You  will  find,"  he  went  on,  smiling,  "  that 
to  have  a  useful  purpose  before  you,  will 
change  your  views  about  many  things." 

"  It  not  only  will,"  said  Vernon.  "  It  has 
already  done  so.  I  have  a  little  property  in 
the  east  end  of  London.  A  project  has  re- 
vived in  my  mind  with  regard  to  that,  which 
I  had  a  year  ago,  but  which  I  have  since 
let  drop.  It  is  for  a  kind  of  work-house  ar- 
ranged on  a  new  principle,  which  shall  give 
even  more  relief  than  such  places  do  at  pres- 
ent, and  yet  be  without  what  I  consider  their 
chief  drawbacks.  I  made  the  plan  for  the 
building  myself,  and  had  arranged  nearly 
every  detail.  I  thought,  for  a  sort  of  motto 
above  the  door,  to  put  this  :  "  Come  unto 
me,  all  ye  that  travail  and  are  heavy-laden, 
and  I  will  refresh  you." 

"And  who  was  the  'I?'"  said  Stanley. 
41  Did  that  mean  you  9  Take  care,  Vernon, 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  409 

take  care  !  Have  we  not  already  agreed  to 
distrust  too  eager  emotion  ?  " 

Vernon,  however,  was  not  to  be  disheart- 
ened. All  his  serious  thoughts,  all  his  anx- 
ieties to  find  something  in  life  worth  working 
for,  forced  themselves  into  the  mould  of  this 
new  excitement ;  and  Stanley,  as  he  heard 
him  talk,  began  to  feel  stronger  hopes  of 
him.  Vernon,  indeed,  at  this  moment  drew 
vigor  from  three  sources.  First,  there  was 
the  thought  of  Miss  Walters.  She  was  a 
beautiful  woman,  she  had  a  strong  hold  on 
him,  and  it  seemed  in  his  power  to  redeem 
her  whole  character.  Then  there  was  this 
prospect  of  active  life  suddenly  breaking  in 
on  him  ;  and,  lastly,  there  was  the  pleasant 
world  at  the  duchess's,  which  was  stinging 
him  back  into  common  social  consciousness. 
This  last  influence,  indeed,  so  far  increased 
upon  him  that  on  the  following  day  he  pro- 
posed to  give  a  luncheon-party.  This  found 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  every  one,  and  arrange- 
ments were  made  accordingly. 

The  life  of  Miss  Walters  meanwhile  had 
been  outwardly  less  eventful,  but  not  less  so 


4io  A  Romance  of 

inwardly.  Whenever  she  could  she  retired 
to  her  own  bedroom,  the  view  from  which 
was  beautiful :  and  at  a  table  by  the  win- 
dow she  pored  over  Vernon's  letters.  The 
first  that  reached  her  from  him,  after  she 
had  left  the  Chateau  St.  John,  was  the  one 
to  which  she  recurred  the  oftenest.  The 
strength  of  the  feelings  it  stirred  in  her  may 
be  gathered  from  the  very  first  words  of  her 
answer. 

"  My  beloved,"  she  wrote,  with  the  accent 
duly  inserted — a  fact  which  made  her  smile 
herself  after  she  had  written  it — "  I  should  be 
indeed  ungrateful  if  I  did  not  live  for  you, 
since  I  know  you  would  die  for  me.  As  I 
read  your  letter,  it  was  as  though  you  were 
close  to  me — as  though  your  arms  were 
round  my  waist  holding  me.  Will  you  ever 
know  what  to  a  woman  that  sense  is  of  being 
held,  of  being  clasped,  of  being  supported  ? 
It  seems  to  draw  the  very  soul  out  of  one.— 
If  you  were  here  I  could  fall  on  my  knees 
and  worship  you.  Between  these  two  last 
sentences  do  you  know  what  I  have  done? 
For  a  good  ten  minutes  I  have  been  leaning 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  411 

forward,  with  my  face  upon  your  letter, 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking  about  you.  It 
was  very  silly,  no  doubt ;  but  oh,  my  darling, 
could  you  only  know  what  my  thoughts 
were  !  You  need  have  no  fear  for  me,  as 
long  as  you  fill  my  being.  There  is  no 
room  for  any  evil  there.  But  I  won't  bore 
you  with  my  affection  any  longer.  I  will 
tell  you  what  has  been  boring  me.  Dear 
Mrs.  Crane  has  been  at  me  again  about  Alic 
Campbell.  She  is  always  asking  me  if  I 
don't  like  him ;  and  I  believe  if  I  have  ever 
said  a  word  in  his  favor,  she  has  written  off 
and  told  him  of  it.  I  do  like  him  in  a  way. 
But  he  treated  me  like  a  saint,  and  a  simple 
saint  into  the  bargain,  which  you  know  I  am 
very  far  from  being.  That  is  one  thing 
in  him  which  was  always  jarring  me.  But 
he  is  your  friend.  I  would  like  him  for  your 
sake,  if  he  only  would  not  love  me.  Well, 
Mrs.  Crane  has  heard  from  him,  and  he  is 
coming,  it  seems,  back  from  Sorrento  soon. 
What  shall  we  do  ?  Poor  fellow,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  him.  He  will  want  to  come  to  you, 
at  least  for  a  day  or  two.  You  told  me  he 


412  A  Romance  of 

would  do  that.  You  must  think  over  what 
had  best  be  done  about  it." 

The  next  letter  she  received  from  Vernon 
contained  the  full  news  of  the  arrival  of  the 
duchess's  party,  and  of  his  own  intercourse 
with  them.  This,  however,  was  very  soon 
told ;  and  he  then  passed  on  to  graver  sub- 
jects, repeating  his  former  advice,  and  his 
former  wishes  for  her  welfare.  "  As  to  mere 
affection,"  he  said  in  concluding,  "  I  cannot 
express  myself  properly.  But  you  must  re- 
member me  as  I  have  been,  when  I  have 
been  speaking  to  you  ;  and  with  the  aid  of 
this  memory  you  •  must  read  between  the 
lines  when  I  write  to  you.  If  I  did  not  care 
as  I  do  for  you  I  could  pour  out  fine  ex- 
pressions by  the  page ;  but  to  be  really 
serious  makes  me  silent." 

This  letter  crossed  that  of  Miss  Walters's 
which  has  just  been  given  above,  and,  though 
she  tried  to  avoid  the  impression,  it  struck 
her  as  a  cold  return  to  it.  It  seemed  to  blow 
like  a  chilly  air  over  her  ;  it  produced  in  her 
a  sense  of  isolation ;  and  though  she  suc- 
ceeded in  concealing  its  exact  nature  from 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  413 

herself,  she  could  not  avoid  giving  it  some 
expression.  This  took  the  form,  when  she 
wrote  that  day  to  Vernon,  of  begging  him  to 
come  to  San  Remo.  "  We  are  planning  an 
expedition,"  she  said,  "into  the  mountains 
behind  here.  They  are  so  beautiful — a 
world  of  woods  and  gorges,  where  every 
valley  has  its  snow-fed  river  in  it,  and  every 
height  its  village  and  its  domed  sanctuary. 
We  think  of  going  next  Friday.  Oh,  if  you 
could  only  come  !  We  want  it  to  be  Friday, 
because  on  Saturday  the  other  Miss  Crane 
— the  one  you  know,  will  be  here  for  a 
night  or  two,  and  I  would  so  far  Bather  go 
without  her.  Try  and  come.  It  is  a  very 
short  journey,  and  hour  by  hour  I  feel  I  want 
you  more.  I  told  you,"  she  went  on — her 
pen  was  now  running  away  with  her,  "that  I 
felt  as  though  your  arm  was  round  me.  Do 
not  withdraw  it ;  I  might  so  easily  fall  away 
again.  To  see  you  even  for  one  day  would 
be  a  kind  of  sacrament  to  me.  Come  to  me 
— oh,  do  come — keep  my  life  full  of  you, 
or  something  else  will  fill  it.  I  can  throw 
a  new  light,  I  think,  on  the  way  in  which  you 


414  -A  Romance  of 

have  helped  me.  You  have  made  me  be- 
lieve again  in  the  possibility  of  goodness  in 
men.  Before  I  knew  you  I  thought  they 
were  all  bad.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  said 
that  the  cause  of  panic  in  an  army  was  the 
belief  on  the  part  of  each  soldier  that  the 
others  had  lost  confidence,  and  would  not 
obey  orders.  I  was  suffering  from  a  kind  of 
moral  panic.  Human  nature  is  not  logical ; 
and  the  feminine  nature,  I  suppose,  is  the 
least  logical  part  of  it.  It  is  for  that  reason 
that  example  helps  me  so.  I  am  not  logical, 
my  love.  All  my  trust  in  goodness,  and  all 
my  strength  for  it,  is  founded  upon  you." 

The  letter  went,  and  before  she  could  get 
an  answer  to  it,  there  came  another  from 
Vernon.  In  this  there  was  more  description 
of  the  various  doings  at  the  duchess's,  and  a 
long  account  of  the  suggestions  made  to  him 
&  propos  of  standing  for  Parliament.  "If 
this  plan,"  he  wrote,  "  really  comes  to  any- 
thing, it  may  require  me  to  return  very  soon 
to  England.  If  I  were  not  anxious  for 
you,  I  should  go  happily ;  but  how  can  I 
be  happy  when  every  step  I  take  my  heart 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  415 

is  almost  broken  with  anxiety  for  fear  a  poor, 
wounded  child  I  am  carrying  may  be  in  pain  ¥ 

As  Miss  Walters  read  this  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  painful  agitation.  She  repeated 
an  action  which  she  had  already  described  to 
Vernon.  Her  head  drooped,  she  leaned 
heavily  upon  the  writing-table,  and  her  face 
rested  blindly  on  the  letter  that  lay  before 
her.  "Going" — she  thought — "going  back 
to  England  !  and  so  little  said  of  his  sorrow 
for  leaving  me ! "  These  were  her  two 
thoughts,  and  long  as  she  remained  motion- 
less there  were  none  but  these  that  occupied 
her. 

By  and  by,  however,  a  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing came.  She  reproached  herself  and  said, 
"  I  am  selfish.  Why  should  I  be  always 
troubling  him  ? "  And  she  set  herself  then 
and  there  to  write  to  him  in  a  changed 
tone.  "  I  have  been  wrong,"  she  began.  "  I 
have  been  crying  to  you  like  an  unrestrained 
child,  and  I  believe  I  have  fostered  my  sense 
of  weakness  by  thus  going  on  deploring  it 
Surely  it  is  time  that  I  now  felt  confident, 
and  your  last  letter,  I  think,  has  given  me 


4i 6  A  Romance  of 

some  reason  for  being  so.  It  has  made  me 
feel  that  I  can  take  an  unselfish  interest  in 
the  career  which  I  hope  may  be  opening  to 
you.  And  what  a  relief  to  fix  one's  thoughts 
on  something  utterly  apart  from  one's  own 
condition — one's  own  bad  or  good,  and  to 
project  one's  interests  outward  !  When  you 
come  on  Friday,  as,  my  love,  I  know  you  will, 
what  joy  it  will  be  to  me  to  talk  all  this  over 
with  you !  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  could  at 
least  do  one  thing  for  you — that  I  could 
stimulate  you  to  make  the  very  best  use  of 
your  powers  ?  Even  now  I  foresee  that  when 
you  come  over  here,  there  will  be  a  new  light, 
a  new  gladness  in  those  eyes  of  yours,  whose 
looks  I  know  by  heart ;  and  which  so  many  a 
time  I  have  known  full  of  sadness  only." 

In  this  account  of  herself,  undoubtedly, 
there  was  a  certain  amount  of  truth  ;  and  she 
did  her  best  to  bring  her  feelings  into  accord 
with  it  altogether.  She  took  Vernon's  letter 
in  her  hands,  as  if  she  would  grasp  her  nettle, 
and  went  out-of-doors  with  it.  The  house  was 
fronted  by  a  long  slip  of  garden,  which  had 
a  pleasant  terrace  as  its  boundary,  overhang- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  417 

ing  the  public  road.  Beyond  the  road  was 
the  railway ;  beyond  that  moved  the  glossy 
blue  of  the  sea;  and  the  view  for  the 
saunterer  was  framed  by  the  fronds  of  palm- 
trees.  It  was  to  this  terrace  that  Miss 
Walters  took  herself;  and,  attempting  to 
compose  her  thoughts,  she  paced  it  to  and  fro 
slowly.  Her  dress  was  still  of  extreme  sim- 
plicity. She  was  very  different  from  the 
Miss  Walters  whose  entrance  had  been  so 
noted  in  the  restaurant.  Still,  since  the  day 
that  Vernon  had  marked  the  change,  she  had 
become  more  soignee  again  in  some  ways. 
Her  dove-colored  velvet  hat,  it  is  true,  was 
old  and  faded.  Her  dress  of  the  same  color, 
was  faded,  too,  and  was  of  some  common 
stuff ;  but  by  some  magic  on  her  maid's  part 
or  her  own,  its  simplicity  savored  more  of 
the  world  than  of  the  cloister ;  and  she  was 
gloved  and  shod  daintily  now  as  ever.  She 
had  studiously  avoided  lately  much  contem- 
plation of  herself  in  the  glass ;  but  to-day,  as 
she  went  out,  she  could  not  avoid  noticing 
that  she  looked  beautiful,  and  that  the  faded 
tints  became  her ;  and,  in  spite  of  her  sorrow, 
27 


4i 8  A  Romance  of 

there  went  through  her  a  thrill  of  vanity.  In 
an  instant  this  was  cast  into  the  treasury  of 
her  dominant  passion  ;  and  she  said  to  herself, 
with  her  heart  full  of  Vernon,  "  My  body  at 
least  is  worthy  of  your  acceptance." 

Had  she  wished  in  the  terrace  to  consult 
another  looking-glass,  she  might  have  found 
one  in  the  many  glances  that  were  turned  to 
her  from  the  road  below.  But  of  these  she 
took  little  heed.  So  absorbed,  indeed,  was 
she  in  her  own  thoughts  that  a  servant  from 
the  house  had  overtaken  her  without  her 
having  heard  his  footsteps.  In  his  hand  was 
a  tray,  and  on  the  tray  was  a  telegram.  Her 
eye  fell  first  upon  the  name  of  the  sender. 
It  was  Vernon.  Her  face  flushed  with  pleas- 
ure. She  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hand, 
and  continued  her  walk  at  an  increased  pace, 
feeling  that  between  her  palm  and  fingers 
she  was  clasping  tight  a  treasure.  She 
would  not  read  it  yet ;  she  would  enjoy  the 
throbs  of  uncertainty.  "  Perhaps,"  she 
thought,  "  he  may  be  coming  even  before 
Friday — this  evening  —  this  afternoon — per- 
haps by  the  next  train."  This  last  possibility 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  419 

was  suggested  by  the  noise  of  a  railway 
whistle ;  and  presently,  like  a  black  reptile, 
smelling  of  smoke  and  coal-dust,  the  train 
went  sliding  by.  She  watched  the  carriage 
windows,  hoping  to  detect  his  face  at  one 
of  them ;  but  not  having  done  this,  she 
resolved  to  inspect  the  telegram.  She  half 
unfolded  it ;  but  then  she  staid.  Un- 
certainty still  charmed  her ;  and,  she  looked 
at  the  unreal  paper  with  a  smile  of  pensive 
tenderness.  It  was  still  not  opened  when 
the  sound  of  her  own  name  startled  her. 
It  did  more  than  startle  her,  for  she  knew 
the  voice  that  uttered  it.  It  was  that  of 
Colonel  Stapleton.  Instinctively  she  thrust 
the  telegram  into  her  pocket  ;  and  in  a 
state  of  mind  that  was  at  first  but  blank 
astonishment,  she  stood  stock  still  for  a 
moment,  and  then  went  forward  and  greeted 
him.  As  she  did  this  there  was  a  smile  on 
her  lips  that  came  of  long  habit.  It  is  im- 
possible to  make  an  entire  change  in  one's 
manner  to  a  person  who  is  unconscious  of 
any  reason  for  a  change.  Some  change  in 
hers,  however,  there  without  doubt  was,  for 


420  A  Romance  of 

the  colonel  at  once  declared  she  was  "grum- 
py," and  "  out  of  sorts."  When  this  meet- 
ing took  place  they  were  standing  near  a 
small  summer-house ;  and  by  a  rapid  move 
of  the  colonel's  in  another  moment  they  had 
sat  down  in  it. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  what  on  earth  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  You  shouldn't  treat  me 
in  this  way,  for  I  can  only  stay  ten  minutes. 
I've  come  over  with  some  lawyer's  papers, 
for  Molly  Crane  to  sign,  and  in  another  half 
hour  I  shall  have  to  start  for  Nice  again.  I 
heard  you  were  in  the  garden,  so  I  couldn't 
help  having  one  try  at  finding." 

The  news  that  the  colonel  was  going  gave 
Miss  Walters  great  relief,  and  brought  a 
smile  to  her  face  that  was  perhaps  more  cor- 
dial than  she  meant  it  to  be  ;  for  the  colonel 
took  her  by  the  chin  and  turned  her  face 
toward  him.  At  his  touch,  however,  she 
started  back  abruptly,  though  the  smile  did 
not  desert  her. 

"  Remember,  Jack,"  she  said,  "  I'm  going 
to  have  no  more  of  your  nonsense.  We  are 
too  old,  both  of  us,  for  that  kind  of  thing." 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  421 

"Tin  not,"  said  the  colonel,  "though  I 
believe  I'm  in  too  great  a  hurry  for  it 
However,  I  shall  be  back  here  to  have  an- 
other look  at  our  Molly — in  a  couple  of  days. 
I've  engaged  a  room  —  a  first-rate  one  —  at 
the  Hotel  Victoria.  Such  a  view  from  it,  I 
can  tell  you !  You  must  come  and  see  it 
yourself  one  of  these  days — little  cross,  vin- 
dictive minx  that  you  are  ! " 

When  the  colonel  said  he  was  in  a  hurry, 
he  really  spoke  the  truth.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain bal  masque  at  Nice  that  evening,  to 
which  he  was  going  to  escort  a  select  party 
of  friends ;  and  so  anxious  was  he  that  he 
should  not  miss  this  that  he  very  soon  was 
taking  leave  of  Miss  Walters,  though  with- 
out informing  her  as  to  the  joys  that  lay 
before  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight,  Miss  Wal- 
ters took  out  the  telegram,  and  now  she  at 
once  read  it.  It  was  not  a  lengthy  docu- 
ment ;  it  consisted  simply  of  this :  "  I  can't 
come  on  Friday.  I  am  asking  a  party  that 
day  to  lunch  with  me.  I  will  explain  by 
letter." 


422  A  Romance  of 

The  curtness  and  the  coldness,  as  she 
thought  it,  of  this  despatch  had  an  effect  as 
sudden  on  her  as  that  of  a  physical  blow. 
Her  first  outward  expression  of  her  inward 
feelings  was  a  rapid  movement  to  the  para- 
pet of  the  terrace,  on  which  she  leaned  her 
arms,  and  looked  fixedly  toward  the  railway 
station.  "  What  a  fool  I  was,"  she  murmured, 
"  to  have  driven  Jack  away  ! " 

An  hour  after  this  she  was  in  her  bed-room 
kneeling,  for  the  most  part  silent,  but  now 
and  again  whispering,  "  How  wicked  I  am ! 
Shall  I  never  make  myself  good  for  any- 
thing ?  "  The  same  night  she  began  another 
letter  to  Vernon. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  wrote,  "if  I  shall  send 
you  this.  I  shall  see  as  I  go  on.  I  don't 
like  to  trouble  you,  and  to  make  you 
wretched ;  but  nothing  that  I  could  tell  you 
could  make  you  half  so  wretched  as  I  myself 
am.  You  tell  me  to  say  my  prayers;  you 
tell  me  to  love  God.  I  try  to  do  both.  I 
have  tried  each  night  to  do  so.  But  I  feel 
more  or  less  as  you  do.  It  is  not  a  man's 
privilege  only  to  find  his  reason  at  war  with 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  423 

his  faith.  A  woman  sometimes  can  have  the 
same  greatness  thrust  upon  her ;  she,  too, 
can  doubt  the  reality  of  all  that  she  thinks 
most  valuable.  I  have  had  bitter  experience 
of  this  these  days  I  have  been  away  from 
you.  All  the  holy  things  that  we  were 
brought  up  to  long  for,  and  for  which,  till 

I   had  ruined  myself,   I   did  long what 

do  you  think  they  now  seem  to  me  ?  Like 
one  of  those  fallen  rocks  in  the  middle  of  a 
great  ocean,  which  sailors  see  sometimes,  and 
which  then  disappear  suddenly.  What  tricks 
are  played  one  by  the  various  faculties  of 
one's  being !  Yes ;  I  believe  one  five  min- 
utes, and  I  disbelieve  another.  You  know 
my  opinion  about  the  Catholic  Church.  I 
have  often  told  you  how  impossible  it  is  to 
me  to  believe  in  its  teachings  literally.  Well 
— what  do  you  think  I  have  done,  and  done 
in  real  good  faith,  more  than  once  lately? 
I  have  prayed  to  Saint  Mary  Magdalene ! 
What  does  it  all  mean,  my  friend,  this  bizarre 
confusion  of  emotion,  thought,  and  judgment? 
If  I  had  no  faith,  I  should  not  be  so  misera- 
ble as  I  am.  That  is  what  seems  so  hard 


424  A  Romance  of 

to  me.  I  have  enough  faith  left  to  make  me 
miserable,  but  not  enough  to  make  me  hope- 
ful. My  faith  has  lost  its  courage ;  but,  like 
other  cowards,  it  can  still  bully.  My  life  is 
bitter  with  the  lees  of  a  belief  whose  finer 
spirit  is  evaporating. 

"  Do  you  not  see  how,  when  one  is  in  this 
state,  the  desire  for  self-respect  becomes  of 
the  same  nature  as  one's  belief  and  faith? 
Self-respect,  it  is  always  being  whispered  to 
one,  is  nothing;  neither  is  there  any  need 
for  any  self-condemnation.  It  is  our  judg- 
ment of  our  past,  not  our  past,  that  fills  us 
with  self-reproaches. 

"  My  friend,  out  of  this  chaotic  mind  of 
mine  your  love  might  call  peace  and  order. 
But  now — what  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  I  begin 
to  feel,  or  at  least  to  fear,  that  your  love  is 

getting .  But  no.  I  will  not  finish  the 

sentence.  I  will  wait  till  I  hear  what  you 
say  to-morrow  morning.  My  darling,  I  dread 
your  letter." 

Vernon's  letter  arrived.  It  was  full  of  re- 
grets that  he  could  not  come  to  San  Remo 
on  Friday.  It  was  full,  too,  of  little  details 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  425 

and  incidents  that  he  judged  would  amuse 
Miss  Walters ;  and  it  begged  for  her  sym- 
pathy in  his  hopes  of  a  new  career.  It  was 
impossible  to  say  that  it  was  not  written  most 
affectionately.  But  for  all  this,  her  instinct 
observed  a  want  in  it — not  a  want  she  could 
blame,  one  only  she  could  shudder  and  won- 
der at.  It  did  not  put  him  in  a  different  light 
before  her,  but  her  own  relation  to  him.  Her 
answer  expressed  this. 

"  Dear,"  she  wrote,  continuing  her  last 
night's  letter  where  she  had  left  off,  "  I  have 
got  yours  of  this  morning,  and  I  think  I  will 
send  you  what  I  have  already  written.  I  am 
sorry  you  can't  come  on  Friday,  but  I  have 
no  doubt  you  are  amused  better  where  you 
are.  So  far  as  I  can  gather,  you  are  very  gay. 
That  must  be  pleasant.  And  now  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  have  done  one  thing  that  you  told 
me  to  do.  I  have  been  reading  between  the 
lines  of  your  letter,  and  doing  this  very  care- 
fully ;  and  I  feel  that  a  change  is  coming 
over  them.  I  can't  explain  to  you  what  or 
where  it  is.  You  write  still  as  kindly — even 
as  lovingly  as  ever.  But  my  instincts,  as  you 


426  A  Romance  of 

know,  are  very  quick;  and  my  instincts  tell 
me  this — that  you,  though  you  do  not  yet 
know  it,  are  getting  tired  of  me.  I  do  not 
complain.  I  know  I  am  not  worthy  to  keep 
you :  and  yet  you  cannot  wonder  if  I  feel  it  a 
little  bitterly,  when  I  see  my  last  hope  in  this 
world,  and  for  aught  I  know  in  another,  slip- 
ping so  soon — so  soon  away  from  me.  My 
aunt  and  I  are  coming  back  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  A  letter  has  been  sent  on  to  us  from 
your  dear  friend  the  duchess,  to  ask  us  to 
come  to  her  fancy  ball.  I  think  we  shall  go. 
I  have  a  dress  with  me  which  I  once  wore  in 
Florence ;  and  I  shall  have  it  done  up  at 
Nice,  where  we  stop  for  a  night  on  our  way 
back.  Of  course  you  will  go.  I  expect  you 
will  find  it  very  amusing. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  write  as  I  have 
done.  It  took  me  some  time  to  bring  myself 
to  do  so ;  but  it  is  best  to  be  quite  honest,  at 
least  with  the  people  one  is  fond  of." 

What  reply  to  expect  to  this  Miss  Walters 
did  not  know.  The  effort  she  had  made  in 
writing  it,  and  in  acknowledging  to  herself 
what  she  had  said  in  it,  left  her  in  dull  dejec- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  42" 

tion.  At  luncheon,  however,  this  was  some- 
what broken  in  upon  by  an  unwelcome  and 
unexpected  sight.  When  she  went  down  into 
the  dining-room  her  aunt  and  Mrs.  Crane 
were  already  seated ;  but  they  were  not  alone. 
Miss  Walters  perceived  that  there  was  a 
beautifully  dressed  visitor  with  them,  whom 
in  a  moment  more  she  recognized.  It  was 
the  other  Mrs.  Crane. 

This  lady  was  fresh  from  the  Cap  de  Juan, 
and  was  full  of  accounts  of  the  duchess  and 
her  doings.  Many  smart  people  were  shy  of 
Mrs.  Crane ;  but  Mrs.  Crane  was  never  shy 
of  them.  Every  one  of  a  sufficient  position 
was  spoken  of  by  her  with  a  familiarity  that 
implied  anything  but  contempt,  though  it 
continually  took  the  form  of  it :  and  an  im- 
mense amount  of  gossip  was  rattled  off  by  her 
during  luncheon  about  Algy  this  and  Mabel 
that,  with  their  proper  style  and  title  some- 
times added  in  a  parenthesis.  Vernon's  name 
occurred  several  times.  He  was  going  to  give 
a  luncheon  party,  he  had  written  a  charade, 
he  had  taught  a  young  lady  to  play  lawn-ten- 
nis, he  had  frequent  private  conferences  with 


4.28  A  Romance  of 

the  Conservative  ex-minister.  All  this,  how« 
ever,  was  being  only  dropped  by  the  way, 
among  the  other  flowers  of  information  that 
Mrs.  Crane  was  scattering,  till  Miss  Walters 
said  with  affected  carelessness  : 

"  Mr.  Vernon  seems  to  be  contributing 
much  to  the  general  amusement,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  to  his  own." 

There  was  something  in  Miss  Walters' 
tone — a  certain  pain  or  pique  in  it — that 
touched  as  it  were  a  spring  in  Mrs.  Crane's 
being.  She  had  amused  herself  so  well  at 
the  duchess's  with  a  certain  young  guards- 
man that  Vernon's  coolness  to  her  had  quite 
escaped  her  memory.  But  when  Miss  Wal- 
ters spoke,  it  somehow  or  other  came  back  to 
her,  and  seemed  in  common  justice  to  de- 
mand some  slight  punishment.  Memory  and 
imagination  at  once  came  to  her  aid,  in 
friendly  struggle  as  to  which  should  be  most 
active. 

"Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  "may  amuse  other 
people  well  enough,  but  he  amuses  himself 
even  more.  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  ill-na- 
tured to  say  that,  for  there  was  one  other 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  429 

person  at  least  who  I  hope  has  been  as  well 
pleased  as  himself." 

Miss  Walters,  as  she  heard  this,  drew  a 
sharp  breath,  and  her  hand  closed  tightly  on 
a  fork  she  was  idly  trifling  with.  Her  eye 
fixed  on  Mrs.  Crane  with  a  helpless  stare  of 
attention,  and  she  was  struggling  for  self- 
possession  to  make  some  common  remark 
on  the  matter.  Her  aunt,  however,  saved 
her  the  trouble. 

"And  is  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"  a  great  admirer  of  young  ladies  ?  What 
should  you  say,  Cynthia?  You  and  he  are 
such  friends." 

Mrs.  Crane  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little. 
"As  for  young  ladies,"  she  said,  "it  depends 
what  we  mean  by  that.  Mr.  Vernon  likes 
them  married.  There's  one  quite  to  his 
liking  at  the  Cap  de  Juan  now,  and  he  sits 
in  her  pocket  every  evening." 

Miss  Walters  at  last  contrived  to  force  a 
smile  to  her  lips,  and  to  utter  three  words, 
while  it  was  still  on  them.  "  Who  is  that  ?  " 
she  said. 

It  was  the  lady  with  the  dark  eyes,  to  whom 


430  -^  Romance  of 

Vernon  had  made  love  in  the  charade. 
"  She's  one  of  my  best  friends,"  Mrs.  Crane 
said,  "so  of  course  one  can  allow  for  her  lit- 
tle eccentricities  ;  but  we  all  know  that  dear 
Lily  is  not  bashful." 

Miss  Walters  discovered  after  luncheon 
that  Mrs.  Crane  was  going  to  stay  at  San 
Remo  for  a  day  or  two,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  sought  her  company  volun- 
tarily. She  proposed  that  they  should  go  a 
walk  together.  During  the  course  of  this 
tete-h-t£te,  Mrs.  Crane  was  brought  back  to 
the  subject  of  Vernon's  doings,  and  induced 
to  give  more  particulars,  which  she  did  on 
the  following  principle.  Mr.  Ruskin  has  ob- 
served that  one  of  the  commonest  faults  in 
painting  is  the  representation  by  the  painter 
of  more  than  his  eye  sees.  He  thinks  he 
has  seen  distinct  leaves,  whereas  really  he 
has  only  seen  green  shadow.  Mrs.  Crane 
was  afflicted  with  exactly  the  same  delusion. 
She  saw  shadow,  and  she  thought  she  had 
seen  kisses.  The  little  scene  on  the  terrace, 
after  the  charade  was  over,  was  presented  in 
this  way  to  Miss  Walters,  and  a  number  o( 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  431 

other  incidents  of  something  the  same  na- 
ture. 

The  following  morning  when  Mrs.  Crane 
met  Miss  Walters,  "  My  dear  child,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  what  a  lovely  frock  that  is  of 
yours  !  You  weren't  looking  half  so  well  yes- 
terday. Indeed,  I  did  think  you  were  wear- 
ing the  willow  for  a  certain  friend  of  ours, 
whose  little  doings  we  talked  about.  But 
this,  I  suppose,  is  put  on  in  honor  of  Colonel 
Jack  ;  as  to-day,  I  believe,  he  is  going  to 
honor  San  Remo." 


432  A  Romance  of 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"\  ^ERNON'S  time  meanwhile  had  been 
*  passing  pleasantly  enough  ;  but  though 
his  conduct  here  and  there  might  have  been 
such  as  to  explain,  it  was  in  no  case  such  as 
to  justify,  Mrs.  Crane's  conception  of  it.  The 
letter,  therefore,  that  Miss  Walters  had  sent 
to  him,  when  she  received  his  telegram,  was 
an  unexpected  and  inexplicable  blow.  Its 
immediate  result  was  to  rouse  his  anxiety  for 
her  to  a  greater  intensity  than  it  had  ever 
reached  before  ;  and  he  proceeded  at  once 
to  write  to  her,  with  even  more  than  his  ac- 
customed earnestness.  He  was  full  of  won- 
der at  the  impression  he  had  given  her  ;  he 
was  hurt  bitterly  at  having  hurt  her.  But 
next  day,  when  he  thought  the  matter  over 
again,  he  would  not  deny  that  there  was  some 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  433 

foundation  for  her  charge,  even  though  there 
might  be  no  direct  truth  in  it.  The  bright- 
ness of  the  world  certainly  had  attracted  him. 
It  had  come  to  him  like  fresh  air  and  sun- 
shine ;  and  it  had  been  little  short  of  rapture 
to  him  to  be  able  to  laugh  gayly  and  talk 
lightly  again.  He  could  not  deny,  too,  that 
among  the  fair  guests  of  the  duchess  there 
were  several  whose  good  graces  he  had  found 
some  pleasure  in  winning.  He  had  felt  him- 
self to  be  popular ;  he  had  felt  himself  to  be 
fit  for  the  world.  He  had  felt  himself  to  be 
liked  by  many  ;  and  he  had  found  this  a  re- 
freshing change  after  having  been  loved  by 
one.  He  acknowledged  all  this  to  himself ; 
but  was  there,  he  asked,  any  wrong  in  it  ? 

What  answer,  he  wondered,  would  this  let- 
ter of  his  elicit  from  her  ?  He  had  to  wait  a 
day  before  it  elicited  any.  It  reached  Miss 
Walters  the  afternoon  of  her  walk  with  Mrs. 
Crane,  and  that  evening  she  was  unable  to 
write  anything.  But  by  the  evening  follow- 
ing her  answer  was  written  and  posted.  Ver- 
non  at  last  received  it. 

!l  My  dear,  dear  friend,"  she  said,  "  I  have 
28 


434  A  Romance  of 

received  that  last  kind  letter  of  yours.  You 
will  think  that  my  answer  to  it  is  very 
strange.  I  am  intensely  weary ;  there  is  the 
same  languid  heaviness  in  my  mind  that 
there  is  in  the  air  before  a  thunder-storm.  I 
cannot  tell,  but  I  think,  perhaps,  that  this 
may  be  a  good  condition  for  me  to  write  in. 
I  am  not  perturbed  for  the  moment  by  any 
violent  feeling. 

"  You  know  how  little  sanguine  I  have 
been  about  my  own  case.  My  mind  misgave 
me  all  the  time,  that  I  needed  more  help  than 
I  had  any  right  to  expect  of  you.  The  in- 
tense, the  tender  devotion  that  you  have 
shown  for  me,  and  for  my  welfare — I  know 
how  true  it  has  been.  I  do  not  for  a  moment 
doubt  it.  I  am  not  one  of  those  unjust 
women  who  say  that  a  feeling  cannot  be  true 
because  it  does  not  last  forever.  We  do  not 
judge  of  bad  feelings  in  that  way.  Why 
should  we  judge  so  of  good  ones  ?  No  ;  I  be- 
lieve that  you  have  had  at  heart  my  welfare 
in  the  truest  and  best  of  ways.  I  believe  that 
you  have  loved,  and  that  you  do  love  me. 
Were  I  other  than  I  am — were  I  only  now 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  435 

what  I  once  might  have  been,  we  might  have 
been  happy  all  our  lives  together.  It  is  my 
fault,  it  is  not  yours,  that  what  has  happened 
has  happened.  I  am  speaking  deliberately, 
and  with  the  conviction  that  I  speak  truth, 
when  I  say  that  the  only  love,  the  only  devo- 
tion, that  could  have  saved  and  redeemed  me, 
would  have  been  a  devotion  too  sad  and 
sorrowful  for  your  bright  nature  to  have  en- 
dured it. 

"  '  Who  breaks  a  butterfly  upon  a  wheel  ? ' 

— I  am  not  applying  that  line  to  you,  but 
somehow  or  other  you  suggested  it.  What  I 
would  say  with  regard  to  you  is,  who  expects 
a  swallow  to  carry  a  millstone  ?  I  in  life 
should  be  a  millstone  hung  about  your  neck. 
You  could  not  lift  me.  There  is  nothing 
left  for  you  but  to  spread  your  wings  and 
leave  me. 

"  Dear,  the  strongest  personal  hold  I  could 
have  had  on  you,  would  have  been  through 
your  lower  nature.  Had  you  had  less  self- 
command,  less  self-denial,  I  might  have  held 
you  through  that.  I  know  it,  though  I  ought 


436  A  Romance  of 

not  to  know  it.  But  you  can  command  your- 
self ;  and  I  revere  your  strength,  because  I 
realize  your  temptations.  I  must  explain 
myself.  I  say  the  strongest  personal  hold. 
What  is  actually  your  strongest  feeling  for  me, 
indeed  what  is  practically  now  almost  your 
only  feeling  for  me,  is  your  desire  that  a  soul 
should  save  itself.  But  listen  to  me.  It  is  a 
soul,  not  my  soul,  that  you  are  anxious  for. 

"  You  remember  the  little  lame  child  you 
so  kindly  carried  to  its  home.  You  carried 
it  in  your  goodness ;  but  you  were  glad  to 
put  your  burden  down.  I  am  to  you  like 
that  poor  child. 

"  I  have  no  anger  against  you  as  I  write 
this.  I  feel  no  bitterness  or  desperation ; 
though  these  may  very  soon  come  on  me. 
But  I  am  calm,  just  yet. 

"  I  have  not  formed  this  judgment  of  you 
from  your  own  letters  only.  I  have  heard  of 
you  from  a  third  person — a  person  I  cannot 
endure,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  said  what  she 
did  say  out  of  a  more  or  less  defined  ill- 
nature.  The  person  I  speak  of  was  Mrs. 
Crane,  who  tells  me  that  she  has  been  at  the 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  437 

duchess's ;  and  seems  to  have  kept  a  sharp 
eye  on  your  doings.  There  are  several 
things  she  told  me  which  I,  of  course,  do  not 
believe  for  one  instant.  But,  subtracting  the 
falsehood,  I  could  easily  see  the  truth.  I 
could  see  how,  as  the  world  and  its  bright- 
ness once  more  came  back  to  you,  your  let- 
ters to  me  grew  not  less  kind,  not  less  purely 
intentioned,  but  shorter  and  less  earnest. 
If  a  man  would  really  redeem  a  woman,  she 
must  be  all  in  all  to  him.  That  is  a  truth, 
dear  friend,  you  have  not  learned  yet.  I  think 
—yes,  I  think  that,  had  I  been  different,  I 
might  perhaps  have  taught  it  to  you.  But 
never  mind.  The  dream  is  over.  Had  it 
been  longer,  the  awakening  would  have  been 
harder  to  bear  even  than  it  is.  After  all, 
what  does  it  matter?  You  know  many 
women  as  bad  as  I  am,  perhaps  even  worse, 
and  you  think  their  company  pleasant  enough, 
and  you  never  waste  a  tragic  thought  on 
them. 

"  Well,  we  have  talked  about  the  world. 
It  will  be  in  the  world  that  we  next  meet. 
The  fancy  ball  is  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 


438  A  Romance  of 

we  do  not  return  till  that  evening.  We  shall 
meet  again  there.  I  wonder  if  you  will  rec- 
ognize me. 

"  I  told  you  Mrs.  Crane  had  been  over 
here.  Some  one  else  comes  to-day.  Ah  me  ! " 

She  had  added  in  a  postscript,  "  No,  you 
are  not  all  I  thought  you  were.  Surely  were 
you  what  a  man  ought  to  be,  you  would  be 
able  to  love  in  a  more  human  way  than  you 
do.  There  is  something  wanting  in  you. 
You  are  good  enough  to  make  me  wish  for 
holiness  ;  not  good  enough  to  make  me  able 

to  attain  to  it.  You  are ."  But  here  she 

stopped,  and  tore  off  the  leaf  on  which  all 
this  had  been  written. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  439 


CHAPTER  V. 

A/TISS  WALTERS  in  her  letter  had  spoken 
1-**-  no  more  than  the  truth.  Until  the 
ball  Vernon  was  not  able  to  see  her,  neither 
was  there  any  chance  of  writing  to  her.  It  is 
true  that  the  ball  was  to  be  the  following 
evening,  and  the  interval  of  waiting  was  not 
long.  But  to  him  it  seemed  long.  He  was 
perplexed,  bewildered,  miserable.  Miss  Wal- 
ters filled  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
other  thoughts.  They  had  been  driven  away 
by  her  letter,  as  though  by  a  scourge  of  cords. 
He  could  fix  his  attention  on  nothing  except- 
ing her.  His  grave  plans  for  the  future,  his 
pleasant  amusements  of  the  hour  or  the  mo- 
ment, were  all  ruined  by  her  image.  It  shat- 
tered his  peace  like  a  persistent  street  organ. 
It  would  not  let  him  alone.  It  forced  itself 


44°  A  Romance  of 

on  his  consciousness.  What  should  he  think 
of  Miss  Walters?  What  of  himself?  He 
could  give  himself  no  answer.  In  forlorn 
hope  of  comfort  he  betook  himself  to  Stanley, 
with  whom  lately  he  had  been  having  much 
serious  intercourse,  and  talked  long  and 
earnestly  with  him  about  our  influence  over 
others,  and  the  responsibility  that  influence 
lays  on  us. 

His  acquaintance  with  Miss  Walters  was 
the  first  incident  in  his  life  that  made  such 
influence  a  reality  to  him.  That  opened  his 
eyes  to  the  vast  and  appalling  issues  that 
might  hang  on  his  own  conduct.  It  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  placed  in  his  hand  the  en- 
tire future  of  another  ;  and  he  trembled  when 
he  saw  the  value  of  what  he  was  thus  unex- 
pectedly holding.  He  had  resolved,  however, 
with  the  most  intense  sincerity,  that  he  would 
do  his  utmost ;  or,  rather,  he  had  not  so  much 
resolved  as  been  seized  with  a  desire  to  do  so. 
The  desire  had  come  first,  and  the  resolve 
afterward  ;  and  the  thought  that  here  at 
least  was  one  good  deed  made  plain  for  him 
had  been  a  taste  of  the  bread  of  life  to  one 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  441 

who  spiritually  was  starving.  But  now,  it 
seemed  as  if  this  bread  was  to  be  like  Dead* 
Sea  fruit.  It  was  turning  to  ashes  in  his 
mouth.  And  why  ?  How  had  he  been  false 
to  his  trust?  What  on  earth  had  he  done 
that  Miss  Walters  should  write  thus  to  him  ? 
His  first  impulse  was  to  tax  Mrs.  Crane  with 
lying,  and  he  trusted  very  soon  to  get  the 
matter  right  again.  But  by  and  by  he  began 
to  suspect  uneasily  that  in  Miss  Walters'  im- 
pression of  him  there  might  be  some  amount 
of  truth.  He  might  be  wanting,  possibly,  in 
that  personal  solicitude  which  was  the  thing 
she  seemed  to  hunger  for,  and  which  indeed 
he  had  himself  professed  ;  and  this  misgiving 
was  haunting  him  when  he  went  to  talk  with 
Stanley. 

By  the  time,  however,  the  conversation  was 
over,  he  had  worked  off  some  of  his  more 
painful  excitement,  and  went  away  once  again 
prepared  to  be  sanguine.  But  his  hopes  now 
were  of  an  anxious  and  solemn  kind.  The 
night  before  the  ball  he  spent  alone,  thinking 
over  his  life,  his  powers,  and  what  he  should 
really  do  with  them  ;  and  his  earnest  purpose 


442  A  Romance  of 

with  regard  to  a  single  woman  tinged  with  its 
earnestness  all  his  other  resolutions.  As  for 
Miss  Walters,  he  had  fears  about  her  of  which 
he  could  not  define  the  nature.  The  closing 
words  of  her  letter,  in  especial,  made  his  mind 
misgive  him  :  "  I  told  you  Mrs.  Crane  had 
been  over  here.  Some  one  else  comes  to-day. 
Ah  me  !  "  Who  was  the  some  one  else  ?  What 
did  it  all  mean  ?  There  were  moments  that 
night,  as  he  tried  to  compose  himself  to  sleep, 
when  he  hardly  dared  to  think  of  this ;  and 
when,  after  hours  of  weary  tossing,  his  eyelids 
at  last  closed  themselves,  he  had  been  forced 
to  stifle  arbitrarily  all  such  doubts  by  deter- 
mination. 

With  the  following  morning,  however,  they 
all  came  back  again,  and  his  excitement  be- 
fore long  had  grown  a  physical  pain  to  him. 
One  picture  only  was  before  his  eyes  all  day, 
that  was  his  meeting  this  very  night  with 
Miss  Walters  ;  and  as  he  dwelt  continually 
upon  this  single  prospect,  he  felt,  or  hoped 
he  felt,  that  the  personal  love  she  longed  for 
was  growing  distinct  and  strong  in  him. 

Evening  at  last  drew  on.     He  had  invited 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  443 

Stanley  to  dinner.  The  priest's  company  was 
the  only  thing  that  soothed  him.  He  went 
upstairs  to  prepare  himself  before  his  guest's 
arrival  ;  and  here  he  experienced  another 
jar  to  his  feelings.  His  fancy  dress,  now  that 
the  time  had  come  for  wearing  it,  seemed  a 
hateful  and  degrading  mockery,  and  he  sev- 
eral times  thought  of  avoiding  the  ball  alto- 
gether. How  could  he  bear  to  be  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  outwardly,  when  his  whole 
inward  being  was  as  dark  as  death  itself,  and 
concerned  with  as  serious  issues  ?  But  to 
remain  away  was  even  more  hard  than  to  go ; 
so  he  overcame  his  reluctance,  and  put  on  his 
costume.  It  was  a  relief  to  him,  beyond  any 
of  his  expectations,  that  this  was  quiet  both 
in  form  and  color,  and  required  no  alteration, 
or,  as  he  would  now  have  called  it,  disfigure* 
ment  of  his  face.  It  is  true  that  there  should, 
by  rights,  have  been  a  gaudy  scarf  about  his 
waist,  but  he  would  not  submit  to  this ;  and 
he  found  himself  when  his  toilet  was  com- 
pleted, all  in  black  with  the  exception  of  some 
coarse  stockings.  He  was  simply  a  Spanish 
peddler — a  familiar  figure  in  every  town  on 


444  -A  Romance  of 

the  Riviera.  He  looked  so  little  fanciful 
that  he  might  pass  unnoticed  among  any 
Southern  crowd.  He  even  found  something 
in  his  appearance  that  actually  harmonized 
with  his  feelings. 

Stanley  remarked,  when  he  came  to  din- 
ner, on  the  somber  aspect  that  his  dress  gave 
Vernon,  and  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  should  feel 
rather  afraid  of  you,  if  I  met  you  on  the  Cap 
de  Juan,  in  any  of  these  dark  lanes.  By  the 
way,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  you  have  not 
heard,  I  suppose,  about  Alic  Campbell." 

Vernon  started.   "  Heard  what  about  him?" 

"  He  is  coming  to-night,  to  sleep  at  my 
little  pension.  I  got  a  telegram  from  him  a 
few  hours  ago.  He  is  on  his  way  back  to 
England ;  but  he  only  says  a  word  or  two." 

The  mixed  shock  and  pleasure  which  this 
news  caused  was  not,  in  one  way,  a  bad  thing 
for  Vernon.  It  brought  him  face  to  face 
with  an  anxious  practical  embarrassment,  and 
acted  on  him  as  a  species  of  moral  shower- 
bath.  His  first  fear  was  that  Campbell  would 
come  to  him  that  evening,  before  he  was  safe 
out  of  the  house ;  and  his  wish  was  to  write 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  445 

to  him  before  meeting  him.  "  What  time 
does  he  come?"  he  asked  of  Stanley.  The 
answer  somewhat  reassured  him.  It  could 
not  well  be  before  half-past  ten. 

Vernon  abruptly  rose  from  the  table. 
"  Stanley,"  he  said,  "  will  you  excuse  me  for 
a  minute  or  two  ?  I  will  write  Campbell  a 
note.  I  have  something  particular  I  wish  to 
say  to  him ;  and  I  shall  be  more  at  ease  when 
I  have  got  it  off  my  mind." 

He  went  into  his  library,  and  before  long 
came  back  again.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said  to 
Stanley,  "you  will  give  this  to  Campbell. 
Life  is  full  of  sad  coincidences.  This  after- 
noon I  received,  sent  back  to  me,  a  letter  I 
wrote  to  him  some  three  weeks  ago,  begging 
him  to  come  and  stay  with  me.  There  is 
something  ghastly  in  having  your  own  words 
sent  back  to  you,  especially  when  you  have 
in  many  ways  much  changed  since  you  wrote 
them." 

After  this  Vernon  became  more  restless ; 
and  his  eyes  began  to  gleam  with  an  unnatural 
excitement,  which  contrasted  curiously  with 
the  worn  look  of  his  face.  When  dinner  was 


446  A  Romance  of 

over,  he  went  to  the  open  window,  and  re- 
mained there  for  some  moments  silent.  The 
evening  was  warm,  but  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen,  and  the  sky  was  thick  with  stars.  A 
soft  breeze  came  blowing  up  from  the  sea, 
and  brought  a  splash  of  waves  with  it.  Ver- 
non  sniffed  the  air,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of 
smelling-salts,  and  proposed  to  Stanley  that 
they  should  go  outside  and  enjoy  it.  Stanley 
assented.  No  sooner  were  they  on  the  gravel 
than  Vernon  began  to  step  out  vigorously. 
At  an  increasing  pace  they  made  the  circuit 
of  the  garden  ;  they  did  the  same  thing  for 
the  second  time.  Then  the  garden  bounds 
grew  too  small  for  Vernon,  and  nothing  would 
satisfy  him  but  that  they  should  wander  out 
upon  the  rocks.  The  project  pleased  Stanley  ; 
he  was  himself  being  braced  by  exercise.  The 
rocks  in  question  were  part  of  the  same  reef 
as  that  on  which  Vernon  with  other  compan- 
ions had  been  clambering  not  so  long  ago  ; 
and  access  was  to  be  had  to  them  from  his 
own  garden,  as  well  as  from  the  duchess's. 
In  a  few  moments  more  he  and  Stanley  had 
descended  a  winding  path,  and  found  them- 


The  Nineteenth    Century.  447 

selves  almost  on  the  sea-level.  The  long  reef 
before  them  was  indented  with  miniature 
fiords,  in  which  the  dark  water  swayed  and 
gleamed  under  the  starlight.  Here  the  breeze 
breathed  fresher,  the  noises  of  the  waves  came 
clearer,  and  the  naked  skies  and  stars  towered 
over  them  in  the  treeless  air. 

Presently  Vernon  began  abruptly,  "We 
have  often,  Stanley,"  he  said,  "  talked  about 
human  affection ;  and  even  yet  I  hardly 
know  what  to  think  about  it.  Is  it  more 
than,  or  is  it  less  than,  a  desire  for  another's 
good?" 

"  It  includes  that,"  said  Stanley,  "  but  it  is 
beyond  doubt  more  than  that.  A  desire  for 
another's  good,  and  a  wish  or  will  to  work  for 
it,  is  what  we  should  have  for  every  human 
being ;  but  if,  in  speaking  of  affection,  you 
mean  that  special  personal  longing  which  is 
what  we  mean  by  the  word  usually,  then  affec- 
tion is  more  than  a  mere  zeal  for  souls.  In- 
deed, it  is  almost  impossible  to  have  the  latter, 
unless  you  have  at  least  the  capacity  for  the 
former.  You  must  have  at  least  the  power 
of  being  fond  of  some  one,  or  of  some  special 


44  8  A   Romance  of 

ones,  or  you  will  never  have  the  power  of  being 
zealous  in  God's  sense  for  all." 

"  To  me,"  said  Vernon,  "  that  longing  for 
the  individual  seems  sometimes  but  the  inten- 
sity of  self-indulgence.  Stanley,  for  reasons 
which  I  cannot  explain  to  you,  this  has  been 
brought  home  to  me  with  a  fearful  personal 
force.  In  following  one's  own  salvation  one 
may  be  stealing  the  salvation  of  a  friend." 

"  I  have  no  wish,"  said  Stanley,  calmly,  "  to 
inquire  into  any  of  your  secrets  ;  but  the  case 
you  state  I  can  very  easily  imagine.  It  is  by 
no  means  uncommon.  The  life  of  the  Chris- 
tian is  full  of  such  paradoxes,  and  the  Chris- 
tian philosopher  accepts  and  is  not  daunted 
by  them.  I  have  been  studying  you,  if  you 
will  let  me  say  so,  for  some  time  past ;  and  in 
a  certain  way  your  condition,  I  think,  is  sin- 
gular. The  most  sensitive  part  of  you  is  the 
intellect,  just  as  with  many  men  it  is  the 
senses  ;  and  there  has  fallen  full  on  your  in- 
tellect the  dissolving  forces  which  are  at  work 
in  the  world  about  us.  They  are  every- 
where ;  in  the  air  they  breathe,  in  the  light 
we  see  by.  Only  on  your  mind  the  scattered 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  449 

rays  have  been  focalized.  The  denials  of  the 
intellect  have  gone  far,  in  your  case,  towards 
paralysing  the  affirmations  of  the  affections. 

Vernon  was  picking  his  way  carefully  over 
the  ledges  of  the  rocks ;  and  this  slow  fash- 
ion of  walking  gave  him  full  time  to  attend 
to  Stanley.  At  last  he  said  in  a  slow  con- 
strained voice,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
sea : — 

"  That  is  just  my  stumbling  block.  The 
intellect  does  deny  the  affirmations  of  the 
affections.  Against  my  will  it  annihilates 
them." 

"  And  why  is  that  ? "  said  Stanley,  with 
sudden  vigor.  "  Is  it  the  fault  of  your  in- 
tellect or  your  affections  ?  My  dear  Vernon, 
I  know  quite  well  that  our  intellectual  diffi- 
culties are  not  things  to  be  pooh-pooh'd,  nor 
can  they  be  in  all  cases  set  down  as  wicked- 
ness or  perversity.  But  believe  me,  that  in 
many  cases  intellectual  denial  is  based  upon 
moral  trifling.  The  intellect  is  a  mill.  It 
will  grind  if  you  bring  grist  to  it :  if  not,  it 
will  only  turn  and  turn.  And  what  brings 
grist  to  it  ?  First  and  foremost  I  should  say 


450  A  Romance  of 

that  love  did.  In  that  thing,  so  despised  of 
you — a  man's  common  natural  affection  for 
another  human  being — is  the  germ  not  only  of 
all  morality,  but  of  all  philosophy.  To  love 
another,  is  to  affirm  the  external  world ;  it  is 
to  create  creation,  it  is  to  open  the  eyes  to 
God.  What  can  the  senses  do  for  you  ?  Can 
they  even  prove  to  you  that  you  are  not 
alone  in  the  universe,  and  that  all  its  shapes 
and  seemings  are  anything  but  modes  of  your 
own  aimless  consciousness?  No  —  were  it 
only  for  the  senses,  you  would  be  unredeemed 
in  dreamland.  There  is  a  passage,"  Stanley 
went  on,  "in  the  writings  of  a  modern  Eng- 
lish physicist  —  one  of  the  bitterest  of  the 
younger  generation  of  English  freethinkers 
— which  seems  to  me  very  happily  put,  and 
which  I  know  well  by  heart.  The  infer- 
ences, he  says,  of  physical  science  are  all  infer- 
ences of  my  real  or  possible  feelings ;  infer- 
ences of  something  actually  or  potentially  in 
my  consciousness,  not  of  anything  outside  it. 
There  are,  however,  some  inferences  which  are 
profoundly  different  from  those  of  physical 
science.  When  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  451 

YOU  are  conscious,  and  that  there  are  objects 
in  YOUR  consciousness  similar  to  those  in  mine, 
I  am  not  inferring  any  actual  or  possible  feel- 
ings of  my  own,  but  YOUR  feelings,  which  are 
not,  and  cannot  by  any  possibility  become  objects 
in  my  consciousness"* 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Vernon,  "  that  is 
very  happily  put.  It  is  your  first  step  to- 
ward redeeming  yourself  from  dreamland  to 
realize  that  you  are  not  the  only  dreamer.  I 
was  trying  some  time  back  to  write  down  my 
own  feelings  with  regard  to  life  ;  and  my  one 
complaint  was  that  I  lived  in  a  world  of  shad- 
ows, and  that  my  fellow-beings  had  no  living 
reality  for  me." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Stanley  ;  "  that  is  the  very 
point  I  am  insisting  on.  To  a  man  who  does 
not  love,  his  fellow  men  will  be  shadows. 
What  gives  them  reality  for  you  is  the  act  of 
loving  —  of  loving  some  other  creature  of  a 
like  nature  with  yours.  Love  truly  is  in  that 
way  creative.  It  is  the  passionate  affirmation 
of  a  fact  which  your  senses  never  can  assure 
you  of.  It  seems  to  be  small,  and  to  deal 

*  Lectures  and  Essays,  by  W.  K.  Clifford,  vol.  ii.  p.  72. 


45 2  ^  Romance  of 

with  passing  and  local  issues;  but  it  contains 
in  it  the  assent  of  your  nature  to  the  reality 
of  the  universe.  Look  at  the  stars  above  us 
— look  at  the  sea  about  us  !  It  is  but  a  com- 
monplace of  philosophy,  which  no  school 
doubts  of,  to  say  that  all  the  worlds  are  held 
in  the  hollows  of  our  own  minds.  The  only 
universe  you  would  ever  know,  or  dream  or 
think  of,  would  perish,  so  far  as  you  could 
tell  with  your  perishing,  were  it  not  for  one 
belief — that  in  that  universe  there  were  other 
minds  like  yours,  which  like  yours  reflected 
it.  Doubt  this,  and  you  must  then  doubt 
everything;  but  if  you  love,  you  will  be  un- 
able to  doubt  this.  The  man  can  never  logi- 
cally be  a  sceptic  who  can  say  what  a  man  I 
know  said  to  a  woman  who  is  now  dead:— 
"  In  your  soul  also,  there  is  for  me  a  universe. 
Time,  space,  and  eternity — these  are  there 
also ;  so,  too,  is  the  infinite  world  of  matter, 
from  Orion  and  the  Pleiades  to  that  blue 
forget-me-not  in  your  bosom." 

At  this  moment  they  were  rounding  a  small 
headland  that  ran  out  between  Vernon's  gar- 
den and  the  large  domain  of  the  hotel.  The 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  453 

reef  of  rocks  stretched  right  ahead  of  them, 
brown  and  black,  toward  the  open  sea.  The 
moon  was  still  unrisen,  yet  the  rocks  looked 
more  distinct  than  they  would  have  done  un- 
der mere  starlight ;  and  here  and  there  it 
seemed  a  wan  color  flickered  on  them.  This 
was  remarked  on  both  by  Vernon  and  Stan- 
ley ;  and  when  they  had  gone  some  paces 
farther,  they  suddenly  came  on  the  explana- 
tion of  it.  Far  up,  beyond  a  slope  of  shrubs 
and  cypress  trees,  were  a  thousand  lamps 
burning,  and  colored  fumes  of  emerald-green 
and  ruby  were  floating  up  into  the  clear  night 
air ;  while  in  the  midst  of  all  stood  the  great 
hotel  itself,  looking  like  some  palace  of  en- 
chantment— a  mystery  of  cloud  and  marble. 

The  thought  of  Miss  Walters  came  to  Ver- 
non with  a  renewed  intensity.  He  turned  to 
Stanley  and  said,  "  I  must  go  :  my  time  is 
come.  I  will  go  this  way,  I  think,  through 
the  duchess's  gardens,  if  you  can  get  back 
without  having  me  to  guide  you.  Your  com- 
panionship, my  dear  fellow,  has  been  more 
comfort  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you  ;  and  there 
is  one  thing  which,  if  it  did  not  trouble  you, 


454  -d  Romance  of 

I  should  like  you  to  do  for  me.  I  told  you 
I  had  jotted  down  some  of  my  thoughts  on 
things — especially  such  things  as  religious 
faith  and  affection.  I  did  my  best  to  be 
honest,  and  I  wish  you  would  read  over  what 
I  wrote.  I  left  it  on  my  writing-table  in  the 
library,  in  a  blue  envelope.  If  you  go  through 
the  house  you  will  find  it  there.  And  by  the 
way,"  he  added,  as  Stanley  and  he  were  sepa- 
rating, "  if  Campbell  does  not  want  to  go  to 
bed  directly,  I  shall  be  back  from  the  ball 
soon.  He  will  find  me  in  by  half-past  twelve. 
I  am  very  tired.  I  shall  be  sure  to  be  back 
by  then.  Last  night  I  slept  ill.  To-night  I 
am  looking  forward  to  sleeping  better,  and 
more  calmly." 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  455 


CHAPTER   VI. 

\  \  7  HEN  Vernon  parted  from  the  priest,  he 
climbed  from  the  lonely  rocks,  and  at 
last  entered  the  duchess's  brilliant  portals. 
He  was  like  a  man  just  dead  coming  to  life  in 
another  world.  Before  his  eyes  in  gay  con- 
fusion was  a  throng  of  moving  colors, 
among  flowers,  and  lights,  and  palm-trees  ; 
and  on  his  ears  in  quick  cadence  burst  the 
measured  crash  of  waltz  music. 

He  was  at  first  quite  bewildered  ;  he  could 
recognize  nobody.  At  last  he  saw  the  duchess, 
who  was  standing  near  the  ball-room  door. 
He  exchanged  a  few  words  with  her,  and  she 
rallied  him  on  the  severity  of  his  appearance. 
But  while  she  was  speaking  another  sound 
startled  him.  It  was  the  voice  of  Colonel 
Stapleton.  Vernon  did  but  catch  a  word  or 
30 


45 6  A  Romance  of 

two,  but  these  few  words  were  enough.  "The 
fact  is,"  the  colonel  was  saying  to  somebody, 
"I've  been  away  from  Nice  for  some  days  ; 
and,  of  all  the  places  in  the  world,  at  San 
Remo." 

The  duchess  heard  the  colonel's  voice 
also,  and  at  once  called  to  him.  "  Well,"  said 
her  Grace,  "  and  where  is  she  ?  I'm  dying  to 
have  another  look  at  her." 

"  Coming,"  said  the  colonel,  gayly.  "  Some- 
thing has  tumbled  out  of  her  hair,  and  she's 
gone  into  the  cloak-room  to  get  it  put  straight 
again." 

"  We're  talking,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  the 
duchess,  "of  your  friend  Miss  Walters.  If 
you  haven't  seen  her  yet,  I  can  tell  you,  you 
should  at  once  go  and  look  at  her.  We  had 
expected,  you  know,  that  we  should  have  had 
you  in  attendance  on  her,  instead  of  our  fat 
friend  here.  Look,  now — there  she  is,  with 
a  dozen  men  round  her  already.  Go  at  once 
and  talk  to  her." 

Vernon  looked  as  the  duchess  bade  him, 
and  there  Miss  Walters  was ;  but  for  some 
time  he  was  rooted  to  the  spot  His  limbs 


The  Nineteenth,  Century.  457 

seemed  to  be  giving  way  under  him.  He 
could  not  move  an  inch.  What  he  had  heard 
since  he  entered  the  ball-room  had  to  all  ap- 
pearance petrified  him  ;  and  he  could  only 
stare  about  him  stupidly. 

"Can't  you  see  her?"  said  the  duchess, 
as  she  was  turning  away  to  speak  to  a  new 
arrival.  "  There  she  is  ;  I  believe  she  calls 
herself  a  "  Snowdrop.' ' 

Thus  urged,  Vernon  moved  mechanically 
toward  the  place  where  Miss  Walters  was. 
She  was  all  in  white.  Her  dress  was  trimmed 
with  snowdrops,  and  she  wore  in  her  hair  a 
wreath  of  the  same  flower.  She  had  her 
usual  calm  manner,  which  seemed  to  show 
that  admiration  came  to  her  as  a  thing  of 
course  ;  but  through  this  calm  more  ani- 
mation than  usual  showed  itself ;  her  eyes 
looked  larger  and  more  luminous,  and  her 
cheeks  had  a  deeper  flush  on  them.  No  won- 
der she  was  the  centre  of  an  admiring  circle. 

As  he  drew  nearer  he  saw  she  was  slightly 
rouged,  and  that  the  darkness  under  her  eyes 
was  not  only  that  of  nature.  In  the  case  of 
most  women  he  would  have  thought  nothing 


45 8  A  Romance  of 

of  this,  but  here  it  gave  a  strange  shock  to 
him.  He  joined  the  group,  pressing  his  way 
into  it  with  a  something  that,  had  he  been 
less  pre-occupied,  he  would  have  felt  to  have 
been  almost  roughness.  But  he  could  think 
of  no  such  trifles  now.  He  moved  like  a 
somnambulist  more  than  a  waking  person. 
In  a  moment  Miss  Walters  caught  his  eye. 
She  advanced  in  a  marked  way  to  meet  him, 
and  the  others  perforce  had  unwillingly  to 
disperse  themselves.  "  Come  with  me,"  she 
said,  "  to  that  window  for  a  moment.  I  can 
talk  to  you  only  for  a  moment  now." 

"  Only  for  a  moment ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Good  God,  Cynthia,tell  me  what  is  this  that 
has  happened  to  you  ! " 

"  Be  in  this  window,"  she  said,  "  at  half- 
past  eleven.  I  can't  talk  to  you  now — not 
with  all  these  people  about  me  ;  and  I  can't 
get  away  before.  But  be  here  then,  and  we 
will  go  for  a  little  into  the  garden.  Remem- 
ber the  place — that  door  close  to  the  ladies' 
dressing-room.  I  shall  escape  there  on  pre- 
tense of  finding  a  smelling-bottle,  and  shall 
be  with  you,  unobserved,  in  an  instant.  Don't 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  459 

talk  to  me  to-night  in  public  if  you  can  help 
it.  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it.  Now — go 
away  and  amuse  yourself.  I  know  you  have 
many  friends  here." 

They  went  back  to  the  throng,  and  were 
almost  instantly  parted  in  it.  But  Vernon 
was  utterly  unable  to  collect  his  wits  to  talk, 
and  he  could  hardly  reply  coherently  to  the 
commonest  greetings  or  inquiries.  Before 
long  he  had  found  the  scene  unendurable, 
and  he  escaped  by  himself  into  the  garden. 
The  walks  about  the  house  were  too  bright 
with  lamps.  What  he  wished  for  was  silence 
and  darkness.  He  found  his  way  into  a  by- 
path, and  slowly  paced  up  and  down  in  medi- 
tation, waiting  wretchedly  for  the  appointed 
time  to  arrive.  On  Miss  Walters  herself  he 
could  hardly  bear  to  let  his  thoughts  rest ; 
but  the  image,  if  not  the  thought  of  her,  was 
continually  present  to  him.  His  thoughts, 
however,  found  another  object,  and  this  was 
Colonel  Stapleton.  His  whole  being  grew 
concentrated  into  a  hatred  of  this  man,  and 
signs  of  the  feeling  began  to  rise  to  the  sur- 
face, in  the  shape  of  broken  mutterings. 


460  A  Romance  of 

"  May  God  in  heaven  for  ever  damn  and 
curse  you  !  May  I  be  cursed  myself,  so  that 
I  only  secure  your  everlasting  misery.  Beast, 
the  clay  you  were  made  of,  was  black  and 
fetid  with  the  vilest  sewage  of  life !  For  your 
own  filthy  pleasure  you  have  broken  and 
trampled  on  the  whitest  and  purest  soul  that 
ever  looked  out  of  the  holy  eyes  of  woman. 
God  curse  you,  you  dog !  May  I  die  to- 
night and  awake  in  hell  to-morrow,  if  only  I 
might  gloat  forever  there  over  your  ever- 
lasting agony  ! "  Such  were  the  sounds  that 
came  from  his  lips  half  audibly ;  and  in  this 
condition  he  wandered  to  and  fro,  for  he 
knew  not  how  long.  He  was  roused  by  and 
by,  however,  by  hearing  a  step  behind  him, 
and  in  another  instant  a  hand  was  laid  on 
his  shoulder,  and  a  rough  voice  was  or- 
dering him  to  be  off  and  about  his  business. 
The  stranger  addressed  him  in  a  mixture  of 
French  and  English — the  former  broken,  the 
latter  coarse.  The  meaning  of  the  incident 
presently  became  clear.  The  man  was  one 
of  the  house  servants,  and  Vernon  in  his 
peddler's  dress  had  been  seen  and  mistaken 


Tke  Nineteenth  Century.  461 

for  some  suspicious  character ;  nor,  when  he 
cast  a  glance  down  at  his  garments,  could  he 
much  wonder  at  what  had  happened.  The 
servant  departed  with  many  apologies,  and 
some  suppressed  amusement ;  and  Vernon, 
annoyed  at  the  interruption,  went  back  to- 
ward the  house.  He  consulted  his  watch. 
Time  had  passed  faster  than  he  had  thought 
possible.  It  was  a  few  minutes  after  half- 
past  eleven.  He  hastened  to  the  appointed 
window,  from  which  a  flight  of  steps  led  down 
into  the  garden,  and  there  Miss  Walters  was. 
She  had  plainly  been  waiting.  She  was  look- 
ing about  her  anxiously.  He  ascended  a 
step  or  two.  She  came  down  to  meet  him. 
"You  are  too  late,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Too  late  ! "  he  echoed. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "  Some  one  else  has  dis- 
covered that  I  was  about  to  escape  into  the 
garden.  It  is  with  difficulty  that  I  have  se- 
cured ten  minutes  or  so,  alone.  He  will  be 
looking  for  me  presently.  I  told  him  I  would 
remain  here.  But  come  now,  let  us  move 
away  quickly.  The  time  is  short,  for  where- 
ever  I  go  I  know  he  is  sure  to  find  me.  At 


462  A  Romance  of 

the  end  of  the  straight  terrace  there  is  a  bench 
— take  me  to  that." 

They  passed  down  the  walk  in  silence,  nor 
did  either  speak  until  they  had  sat  down  to- 
gether. Then  Vernon  very  gently  put  his 
arm  round  her  waist,  and  tried  to  draw  her 
to  himself.  But  she  would  not  permit  of  it. 
"  No,"  she  said  passionately,  "  that  must  never 
happen  again.  I  am  not  fit  for  you.  We 
know  both  of  us — we  have  quite  agreed  by 
this  time — that  I  am  not  fit  for  you." 

"  Cynthia,"  he  exclaimed,  "  tell  me  what  all 
this  means  !  Who  is  it  that  is  coming  here  to 
look  for  you  ?  I  am  not  asking  you  out  of 
any  captious  jealousy.  If  it  were  any  one 
who  would  be  good  to  you,  and  for  his  sake 
you  chose  to  leave  me,  I  would  tease  you 
with  no  prayer  to  keep  you." 

"  That  is  just  it,"  she  cried  bitterly.  "  I 
knew  you  would  let  me  go.  That  is  just  the 
bitterness.  You  have  the  same  care  for  me 
that  a  priest  might  have  or  a  doctor ;  it  is  not 
the  care  of  a  human  being  that  loves  me.  It 
is  my  welfare  you  care  for,  it  is  not  me.  I  am 
your  penitent  or  your  patient ;  I  am  not  the 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  463 

one  woman  who  could  make  life  happy  for 
you." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  said  Vernon  ;  "  for  I  do 
love  you.  If  you  knew  how  wretched  you 
had  made  me,  you  would  not  doubt  my 
love." 

Her  eyes  softened,  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  despairing  tenderness.  "  You  speak 
the  truth,"  she  said.  "You  love  rne  enough 
to  be  made  wretched  by  me,  but  not  enough 
—not  nearly  enough  to  be  made  happy  by 
me." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Vernon  in  a  whisper,  "  who 
is  it  that  you  say  will  come  here  to  look  for 
you  ? " 

"You  ask  me,"  she  said,  "  if  he  was  a  man 
who  would  be  good  to  me.  He  is  not.  He 
knows  no  more  of  goodness  than  he  knows  of 
Hebrew  ;  and  he  has  no  more  compunction 
for  the  soul  that  he  has  crushed  by  his  kisses 
than  he  would  have  for  a  beetle  that  he  trod 
on,  in  his  path,  by  accident." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Vernon.  "  It 
seems  that  my  head  is  swimming.  I  must 
know  who  you  mean.  I  need  not  ask  his 


464  A  Romance  of 

name.  But  for  God's  sake  tell  me — what  have 
I  done  ?  What  horrid  crime  have  I  committed 
that  you  should  leave  me  for  him  ?  Surely  my 
own  one — surely  my  angel,  it  is  not  too  late 
to  come  back  to  my  arms  again.  He  can 
never — surely  this  is  not  possible — have  re- 
covered his  old  influence  over  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  heart ! "  she  exclaimed,  pressing 
her  hands  hard  on  it.  "  How  my  heart  is 
beating." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  she 
now  made  no  resistance.  She  let  herself  be 
passively  drawn  toward  him,  and  once  again 
she  was  resting  quietly  in  his  embrace.  As 
she  yielded  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  and 
said  with  a  quick,  painful  gasp,  "  He  has  dis- 
covered everything ! " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Neither  looked 
at  the  other.  By  and  by  Vernon  again  spoke 
to  her,  but  her  eyes  were  closed,  and  she 
would  give  him  no  answer.  He  took  her 
hand,  and  then  again  he  spoke  to  her,  but 
there  was  still  no  answer ;  and  he  now  saw 
that  she  was  unconscious.  He  tried  to  revive 
her  by  fanning  her,  but  this  produced  no 


The  Nineteenth   Century.  465 

effect.  He  then  bethought  himself  of  a  foun- 
tain close  at  hand,  and  he  hurried  off  to  dip 
his  handkerchief  in  the  water.  On  his  way, 
however,  he  heard  footsteps  ;  and  he  stood 
aside  for  a  moment  under  the  shadow  of  a 
cypress  tree  to  listen.  The  sound  came 
nearer.  It  was  a  man's  firm  tread.  He  was 
walking  slowly  ;  and  presently  Vernon  caught, 
whistled  softly,  a  fragment  of  a  vulgar  song, 
popular  in  London  music-halls.  A  moment 
later,  and  the  man's  figure  was  visible.  It 
was  Colonel  Stapleton.  One  of  the  many 
pet  dogs  of  the  duchess  was  trotting  by  his 
side,  and  with  a  soft,  kind  caress  he  stooped 
down  to  pat  it.  The  moon  that  was  now 
risen  shone  full  on  his  face — on  the  sleek 
blonde  moustache,  the  well-trimmed  beard, 
and  the  waterish  gray  eyes,  with  their  some- 
what puffy  lids.  It  shone,  too,  on  his  well- 
shaped  hands,  and  glittered  on  his  heavy  gold 
rings.  At  sight  of  him,  Vernon  was  as  it 
were,  fascinated.  His  eyes  fixed  themselves 
on  the  colonel ;  his  teeth  were  set,  and  his 
hands  clenched  themselves  till  the  nails  tore 
the  palms. 


466  A  Romance  of 

The   colonel   never   dreamed  that  he  was 
watched. 

"  I'm  getting  a  big  boy  now — 
I'm  getting  a  big  boy  now — * 

Such  was  the  burden  of  the  ditty  with  which 
he  was  enchanting  the  ear  of  night,  as  he 
went  past  the  cypress  tree.  At  that  instant, 
from  the  shadow,  a  Spanish  peddler  sprang  on 
him,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  throat.  It  was 
like  the  grip  of  a  wild  beast  in  its  strength, 
its  rapidity,  and  its  savageness.  The  colonel 
was  utterly  unable  to  free  himself  from  the 
grasp  of  his  unrecognized  assailant,  who  said 
nothing,  but  whose  shadowed  face  was  fixed 
on  him.  The  colonel  knew  in  an  instant  the 
strength  of  the  grasp  that  held  him.  He 
made  no  effort  to  free  himself,  nor  did  he 
seem  in  any  degree  to  lose  his  presence  of 
mind.  What  he  did  was  the  work  of  a  single 
instant.  In  a  single  instant  from  his  pocket 
there  had  flashed  out  a  small  revolver :  a 
sharp  sound  for  an  instant  broke  the  silence, 
and  the  form  of  a  Spanish  peddler  fell  flat  and 
motionless  across  a  bed  of  cinerarias. 


Tke  Nineteenth   Century.          467 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  BOUT  half  an  hour  previous  to  the 
^F*  above  incident,  a  battered  and  dirty 
carriage  had  arrived  at  Stanley's  pension; 
and  Campbell,  seated  at  supper  in  the  little 
brick-floored  salle-a-manger,  was  opening 
Vernon's  letter. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Campbell,"  it  ran,  "  do  you 
remember  some  idle  words  of  mine,  for  which 
you  reproved  me  ?  I  said  that  my  true  metier 
would  be  that  of  wooer-in-ordinary  to  all  my 
male  friends.  I  would  make  love  for  them, 
and  when  once  I  had  won  the  heart  of  what- 
ever woman  was  in  question,  I  would  hand  it 
over  to  the  man  who  wanted  it.  I  remember 
also  I  said  to  you,  '  Would  you  let  me  do  your 
wooing  for  you  on  these  terms?'  Campbell 

—God,  Destiny,  or  the  Devil  heard  me  when 


468  A  Romance  of 

I  said  that.  Unhappily  I  have  fulfilled  my 
metier,  only  I  cannot  hand  the  heart  over  to 
you  that  I  have  won.  Do  you  know  who 
my  neighbor  is,  at  the  Chateau  St.  John— 
the  woman  about  whom  I  spoke  to  you— 
the  woman  I  drove  home  at  night  with  ? 
You  need  not  tell  me  the  name  of  your 
friend.  I  know  it ;  she  is  my  neighbor.  I 
could  not  help  what  has  happened.  I  never 
knew  that  I  was  fighting  against  you  till  it 
was  too  late.  The  event  in  many  ways  has 
been  to  me  a  sad  one.  I  have  become  much 
changed  since  that  day  when  last  you  left  me. 
If  you  can  bear  to  do  so,  come  and  see  me 
directly.  You  told  me  that  my  face  was 
changed  from  what  it  was  when  first  you 
knew  me.  Perhaps  when  next  you  see  me 
it  may  have  suffered  one  change  more." 

Campbell  had  supped  alone,  as  Stanley 
was  upstairs  busy  ;  but  when  Stanley  by  and 
by  came  down  again,  he  found  Campbell 
with  his  face  white  as  a  sheet.  He  rose  ab- 
ruptly, and  seized  Stanley's  hand.  "Stan- 
ley," he  said,  "  do  you  know  the  news  you 
brought  me  in  that  letter?  Do  you  remem- 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  469 

ber,"  he  went  on  in  a  whisper,  "what  I  told 
you    about   myself  the    last    morning   I    was; 
here?     The   woman   I   told   you    about  was 
Miss  Walters  ;  and  Vernon  is  going  to  marry 
her." 

Stanley  started  and  remained  quite  silent, 
staring  in  Campbell's  face.  Presently  he  cast 
his  eyes  down  to  some  papers  he  had  in  his 
hand,  and  said,  "  I  have  been  just  reading 
some  of  Vernon's  thoughts.  He  wants  you 
to  go  and  see  him.  Will  you  come  to-night? 
Can  you  bear  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Campbell,  "what  I  can 
do  or  bear!  Then  suddenly  he  exclaimed, 
"  Yes,  I  will  go.  I  will  face  everything ;  and 
you,  Stanley  —  will  you  come  with  me? 
Come ! " 

The  two  men  set  out  together,  and  they 
went  silently  along  the  white  moon-lit  road. 
On  their  way  the  silence  was  only  once 
broken.  Once  Campbell  opened  his  mouth, 
and  said,  "  I  hope  Vernon  will  be  happy." 

They  reached  the  garden  gates ;  they  saw 
lights  in  Vernon's  villa  gleam  through  the 
leaves  like  glow-worms.  When  they  got  near 

/ 


47°  ^  Romance  of 

the  door  there  were  several  men  standing 
about,  and  conversation  of  some  sort  was 
proceeding  rapidly.  "Stanley,"  said  Camp- 
bell, "  I  wish  you  would  go  in  first,  and  see 
if  he  has  people  with  him." 

Stanley  advanced,  and  the  group  at  the 
door  eyed  him.  He  was  recognized  in  a  mo- 
ment or  two  by  one  of  the  servants,  who  at 
once  advanced  to  meet  him,  and  said  some- 
thing to  him  in  a  very  subdued  voice. 

Stanley  was  led  by  the  servant  into  a 
small  dimly  lighted  vestibule  at  the  back  of 
the  villa,  and  remained  there  for  some  min- 
utes. When  he  came  out,  he  set  himself 
to  find  Campbell,  and  he  at  last  discovered 
him  in  the  library.  He  was  reading.  He 
had  found  open  on  the  writing-table  Vernon's 
letter  to  himself,  which  had  that  same  even 
ing  been  sent  back  to  the  writer ;  and  it 
had  now  at  last  reached  the  person  it  was 
addressed  to.  One  or  two  of  the  passages 
arrested  his  attention,  in  spite  of  the  pertur- 
bation of  the  moment,  and  in  a  dreamy,  dazed 
way  he  kept  reading  and  re-reading  them. 
"What  do  I  find  has  happened?" — this  was 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  471 

one  of  the  passages  —  "Something  glad, 
strange,  and  altogether  unlocked  for.  Out  of 
the  ashes  of  my  manhood  has  re-arisen  my 
youth — my  youth  which  I  thought  I  had  said 
good-by  to  for  eternity ;  and  the  divine  child 
has  again  run  to  meet  me,  with  its  eyes 
bright  as  ever,  and  with  the  summer  wind  in 
its  hair."  There  was  another  passage  also — 
"Oh,  the  sweetness  and  rest  of  this  serene 
self-possession."  He  was  repeating  these  last 
words  to  himself  when  Stanley  entered. 

"  Campbell,"  said  Stanley,  in  a  strange,  un- 
natural voice,  "  there  is  another  shock  in 
store  for  you.  Shall  I  break  it  to  you 
slowly,  or  can  you  bear  it  now?  It  has 
to  do  with  the  most  solemn  of  all  human 
events." 

Campbell  rose  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
look,  and  Stanley  whispered  a  few  words  in 
his  ear.  "Good  God,"  gasped  Campbell,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  almost  tottering.  Stanley 
grasped  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  into 
the  vestibule.  There  on  a  sofa  was  some- 
thing like  a  human  form,  covered  with  an 
Oriental  table-cloth,  with  gaudy  arabesques 


472  ^  Romance  of 

on  it,  and  fringed  with  heavy  gold.  Stanley 
slowly  raised  one  extremity  of  it,  and  a  face 
was  visible,  calm,  and  placid  like  a  boy's,  only 
bloodless  and  with  no  color  in  it. 

Campbell  stood  over  it  as  if  petrified, 
Some  words  he  had  just  been  reading  came 
into  his  mind.  "  Out  of  the  ashes  of  my  man- 
hood has  re-arisen  my  youth.  Oh,  the  sweet- 
ness and  rest  of  this  serene  self-possession  !  " 
Except  for  this,  his  mind  seemed  like  an  ut- 
ter blank,  till  with  a  start  he  turned  to  Stan- 
ley, and  said  piteously,  "Ah  she what  of 

her  ?  Does  she  know  of  this  ?  " 

Stanley  looked  into  Campbell's  eyes  fixedly 
for  some  moments,  and  in  the  room  there  was 
a  deathly  silence.  At  last  he  said,  "  She 
knows  nothing,  and  she  never  will." 

In  the  Protestant  part  of  the  Cannes  Ceme- 
tery may  be  now  seen  two  headstones,  not 
close  together,  for  it  was  found  impracticable 
so  to  place  them  ;  but  still  not  far  apart.  Un- 
der one  of  them  sleeps  Vernon,  more  soundly 
than  he  had  done  during  the  last  three  weeks 
of  his  life,  with  the  leaves  of  his  confessions 
clasped  on  his  breast  and  buried  with  him. 


The  Nineteenth  Century.  473 

The  other  headstone  bears  this  inscription, 
suggested  by  Alic  Campbell: 

CYNTHIA    WALTERS. 

SHE  DIED  SUDDENLY  OF  HEART  DISEASE, 
APRIL  THE  IOTH,  1881. 

*'  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 


THE   END. 


/2mo,  cloth ,  $1.25 

An  Unofficial  Patriot 

By  HELEN  H.  GARDENER 

"  It  is  a  side  of  the  slavery  question  of  which  North- 
ern people  knew  nothing. "—John  A.  Cockerill,  N.  Y. 
Advertiser. 

"  Strong  and  picturesque  sketches  of  camp  and  field 
in  the  days  of  the  Civil  War." — San  Francisco  Chron. 
icle. 

"The  book  is  being  dramatized  by  Mr.  James  A. 
Herne,  the  well-known  actor,  author  and  manager." — • 
N.  V.  Press. 

"It  tells  a  splendid  story."— -Journal,  Columbus,  O 

"  Will  be  sure  to  attract  the  attention  it  deserves." 
—Philadelphia  Press. 

"  In  its  scope  and  power  it  is  unrivalled  among  war 
stories." — Ideas,  Boston,  Mass. 

"In  many  ways  the  most  remarkable  historic*, 
novel  of  the  Civil  War." — Home  Journal, Boston, Mass. 

"  The  interview  with  Lincoln  is  one  of  the  finest  bits 
of  dialogue  in  a  modern  book." — Chicago  Herald. 

"  Will  probably  be  the  most  popular  and  saleable 
novel  since  Robert  Elsmere." — Republican. 

"  One  of  the  most  instructive  and  fascinating  writers 
of  our  time." — Courier -Journal.  Louisville. 

"Is  calculated  to  command  as  wide  attention  as 
Judge  TourgeVs  "Fool's  Errand." — N.  Y.  Evening 
Telegram. 

"  Has  enriched  American  literature." — Item,  Phila- 
delphia. 

'  'Remarkably  true  to  history. ' '-Inter-Ocean ,  Ch icago 

"  Entitled  to  a  place  with  standard  histories  of  the 
War. " — Atlanta  Journal. 


KKW  YORK:  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


A     000127560     1 


